The Case of the Green-Eyed Soldier
by Lunavere
Summary: It was another boring Sunday when Mycroft walked into their flat and blackmailed Sherlock to investigate a case for him. For Sherlock, this case is nothing special - just another one of Mycroft's "national security" cases. For John, it hits too close to home. As old colleagues and memories resurface, John finds it hard to hide his emotions from an ever observant Sherlock. 1 of 3.
1. Day One

**Author's Note: **Hello all. You might remember this, as it had been posted on here ages ago but was removed and put up on AO3. Well, now it's back! Why, you ask? Simple: some of my works were stolen and posted on here. In order to counteract this, I have decided to place all of my stories back up on once more. That being said, if you see it posted elsewhere besides here or on my AO3 account, please inform me immediately and report it as stolen. Thank you.

* * *

By all accounts, it had been another boring Sunday morning. It was a cloudy day – the dreary kind that always threatened rain but never actually let a drop hit the ground. Sherlock was drawn into another one of his experiments, so John knew he would have to entertain himself for the day. Opening his laptop, John pulled his blog up and paused for a second. He had yet to write about their last case, but he still was not motivated enough to do so. Frowning, John rubbed his eyes and sighed. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening caught his attention. He turned around sharply to find the one and only Mycroft Holmes standing in their doorway.

Nodding at the older man, John managed to say, "Morning." He bit back any snaps about knowing what a buzzer does or knowing how to knock. There was no need to get riled up about something so trivial.

"It's two in the afternoon. Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired, getting directly to the point.

John motioned towards the kitchen. "He's working on one of his experiments," he responded.

Without another word, Mycroft headed into the kitchen. "Sherlock," he called out in an attempt to get his brother's attention.

"Not now," Sherlock snapped, gazing into his microscope. "Make an appointment with John if you really need to speak with me. I'm busy." John pressed his lips together as he heard this; he had gone from flatmate to secretary in the matter of seconds.

Mycroft scowled. "This is not a trivial matter that can be ignored until your earliest convenience, Sherlock. Your assistance is required immediately at the Hyde Park Barracks, and I am here to escort you there."

"Not interested," Sherlock said monotonously as he picked up a new slide and slid it into place. "Besides, didn't I already tell you that I was busy?"

Leaning down, Mycroft murmured darkly, "I don't want to have to force you, but I will if you do not cooperate."

Blue eyes flashing icily, Sherlock looked up defiantly at his elder brother. "I'd like to see you try," he hissed back.

"I didn't want to do this, Sherlock, but you forced my hand," Mycroft said, louder this time. He glanced at John and said, "If you do not voluntarily leave with me, Doctor Watson here will be reinstated and sent overseas."

John felt his face pale as he processed this new bit of information. When he first arrived in London, part of him missed the war; it had made him feel alive. However as he continued to live with Sherlock, John felt more alive than he ever had before. Life with Sherlock was far from perfect, but by no means did he want to return to that Hell-hole. "You can't do that. I was honourably discharged!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you were. But you were discharged because of your limp and your posttraumatic stress disorder. Miraculously, your limp has healed itself, and you no longer see your assigned psychiatrist, which tells me that you're over your PTSD," Mycroft responded. John bit his tongue to keep from snapping. Mycroft had no idea just how far from the truth his last statement was. "You've got a good bill of health, so there's no reason you cannot head out tomorrow back to Afghanistan." John swallowed as he tried to remain stoic. He was not going to let Mycroft push him around so easily. In the army, he had been trained on how to hide his emotions. Maybe he could bluff enough to get out of the situation. If he seemed indifferent enough, Mycroft would not believe he had something to hold over John's head. Slowly, Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled out some folded papers. "In my hand is your reinstatement and orders. So either you help me, Sherlock, or Doctor Watson will return to duty."

Sherlock rose to his feet and sized his brother up. "Is it really so serious that you must threaten John to force me to help you?" he pressed, observing Mycroft carefully.

"Unfortunately," Mycroft answered.

Pausing a moment, Sherlock deduced, "And this case is of such importance to you personally that you yourself had to come down here in order to ensure that we would follow you. You didn't want to leave it to your employees, which means you either don't trust them or you can't trust them. This case is very sensitive. Interesting." He grabbed his jacket and threw it on. "What are the details?" he inquired as he reached for his scarf.

Relaxing, Mycroft put the papers back into his inner jacket pocket. "Three weeks ago, four people were murdered," Mycroft began to explain, heading towards the door.

Following, John frowned as he heard this. "There was nothing in the paper about serial killings," he noted.

"Of course their wasn't. The public would have panicked if they heard about it, and the elections are coming up," Mycroft chided as they headed down the stairs.

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "Another one of your 'national security' cases, Mycroft? You have so many of them nowadays, I'm surprised that there's any sense of security at all in this country."

Glaring at his younger brother, Mycroft continued as if nothing had been said, "The murders appeared random. Although we knew the same man killed all four people, we couldn't figure out how they were connected."

"Then how do you know that the same man killed all of them?" John pressed.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Obvious, John, it's so obvious. The killer left something behind to identify himself with. And since nothing was leaked to the press, it had to be the same man every time," he explained, slightly exasperated. "When does this case get interesting?"

"These murders happened three weeks ago, and then nothing," Mycroft continued as he opened the car door. John slid inside first, knowing Sherlock would not get in until he was in the car. After him, Sherlock slid into the seat, forcing Mycroft to awkwardly shift around them in order to sit in the seat across from them. John looked at Sherlock to find the other a bit amused at his elder brother's situation. Finally, Mycroft was sitting comfortably, the door was closed, and they had begun moving. "Today, there has been a fifth murder."

Sherlock blinked and then smirked. "An officer was murdered in the barracks, and you need to know how the killer got in and out without being seen," he deduced. Mycroft pressed his lips together, looked away, and shifted uncomfortably. Tilting his head slightly, Sherlock examined his brother carefully. "Oh. That _is_ interesting," he murmured.

"What is?" John inquired, not following.

Sherlock did not acknowledge John's question. "You believe that there's someone on the inside who did this, and you can't trust your usual investigators because it could be one of them as well. That's why you need me to investigate this," he continued.

Clearly shocked, John looked between the two brothers. "Are you serious? You think that an officer – a soldier sworn to his country – would murder his brother in bonds?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Mycroft conceded. "Let me assure you that I by no means wanted to turn to you for help, but I am afraid that I have no other choice."

Sherlock smirked. "And therein lies your reason for blackmailing. How dull. I had actually thought you were going to be interesting for once, Mycroft."

"You will not only be investigating this case, but the other four murders as well. There must be some connection between the five murders that we're missing," Mycroft declared.

Eyes flashing, Sherlock asked, "And what do I get out of this?"

"You get to keep your flatmate, for one," Mycroft responded, motioning towards John.

He hated how he was always used as a pawn against Sherlock. If someone threatened Sherlock, they always used him as leverage. On the other hand, he felt honoured that people believed Sherlock actually cared about him. He suspected it was not true – that Sherlock was not as attached to John as John was to him. Deep down, he worried that one day Sherlock would deem him an annoyance in his life and leave John to be alone once more. What a dark day that would be.

Mycroft's voice drifted into John's consciousness. "So what do you say?" he asked. John realised he must have missed a good portion of the conversation while lost in his thoughts.

"I'll agree to investigate on two conditions," Sherlock responded.

Mycroft kept a guarded expression on his face. "What might those be?" he inquired.

"The first would be that you kept nothing from me. No matter where this leads me – and I don't care if it's directly to the Queen herself – you must give me any and all information that I might need to solve this case. Everything in your disposal," Sherlock began.

Nodding, Mycroft agreed, "Consider it done. And the second?"

"When this investigation is over, you are going to ensure that John can never again be pulled into active duty and shipped overseas," Sherlock stated, his voice dangerously low. Mycroft hesitated as he heard this. "I will not negotiate this term, Mycroft. I don't care how you do it, but make sure that John Watson always remains honourably discharged. I cannot have you threatening to send John off every time your own investigators are incapable of working properly. We'd be getting threats every week."

Mycroft grit his teeth together before running his tongue over the front of his teeth. "Very well, Sherlock," he finally replied. "I will ensure that Doctor Watson remains here in London for as long as he wishes if you solve this case."

The car rolled to a stop outside a large, multi-storied building. It was plain-looking – just another skyscraper – but only few knew what happened inside of it every day. Sherlock was the first to emerge from the car, followed by John and then Mycroft. An officer was standing at attention, waiting for them. "This is Lieutenant Thompson. He'll be escorting you to the crime scene. Inform me the moment you discover anything, would you, Sherlock? I don't want to have to place you under surveillance again."

Sherlock refused to address his brother. Instead, he said to the lieutenant, "Take me to it then." Both John and Sherlock followed the lieutenant to the crime scene: an office several key card swipes and number combinations in and isolated from the rest. Finally, they arrived at the crime scene. Stepping into the room, Sherlock said, "That will be all."

"You're dismissed," John translated, nodding in acknowledgement to the lieutenant. "Thank you for escorting us."

Nodding, Lieutenant Thompson responded, "I'll be waiting outside the door if you need me."

John turned as the door closed to find Sherlock already hovering over the body. Knowing there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock investigate, John looked around the office. The body was in the middle of the floor, just in front of the desk. Next to the body was what had to be the killer's calling card: the words "Warning Number 5" were carved into the ground next to the body. The office itself was completely trashed, as if someone had been searching for something. The question was if they found what they were looking for. After a few moments, Sherlock straightened out and called out, "John."

Sherlock did not need to say another word; John knew exactly what he wanted. Kneeling down next to the body, John began his examination. The body was cold – stiff – in full rigor mortis. There were abrasions on the hands and bruising around the wrists. Although his uniform kept John from seeing anymore, he guessed that there would also be bruising on his arms, chest, and legs. His knuckles were also bloody. Moving on, John noticed something wrong with the head and neck. It took him a couple seconds to realise the awkward position of the head was due to the neck being broken.

"Cause of death appears to be due to a broken neck. It appears he's been dead since about five to seven this morning. It appears he fought back since his knuckles are bloody, and the bruises started forming before he died," John informed Sherlock.

Looking around the room, Sherlock answered, "So someone from this building killed him."

"How could you possibly know something like that?" John snapped, immediately defensive.

Sherlock responded, "His neck is broken."

"Anyone who takes a self-defence class can learn how to break a neck," John pointed out.

Still looking around the room, Sherlock responded, "Yes, but not everyone who has taken a self-defence class can get into a building like this. The only way into this office is via a key card and code. Anyone else would have been escorted in like we were and noticed." Sherlock headed towards a bookshelf and began rummaging around the books still left on it. "Mycroft wouldn't have needed me if it was that easy. So this person either works here or comes here often enough that he draws no attention to himself by entering the building." Shaking his head, Sherlock turned around and began searching the desk. "He's probably familiar with the security system here then, and he was familiar enough with this man's schedule to know he came in early in the morning before anyone else. Even so, he wouldn't have had much time to find what he wanted. He needed to be out of the building before someone found the body."

"What about the security system?" John inquired. "In a place like this, everyone is bound to have their own security code. And their surveillance tapes should show us who came in during those times."

Clicking his tongue, Sherlock sighed. "They don't have any surveillance tapes," he informed John.

"What do you mean? I saw the surveillance cameras myself!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock slammed a drawer shut and actually took the time to look at John. "Do you know what happens inside this building every day?" he inquired.

"No," John responded.

"Precisely. They are not going to keep video records of it either. The cameras are fake in order to keep up the appearance of constant surveillance," Sherlock told him as he began feeling around the desk. "Truth is that they rely only on their codes and key cards and believe undoubtedly that there is no other way to get in and out without it being registered."

John suggested, "If that's true, shouldn't we check to see who came in between five and seven?"

"It would be pointless," Sherlock informed him, still critically examining the desk.

Pressing his lips together, John inquired, "Why?"

"Because Mycroft would have already done that. Had it yielded anything, I wouldn't be here. Besides, the killer would have been too smart for that. He's familiar with the security system here, and he would make sure that there's no electronic fingerprint of his presence. Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, banging on the desk. John headed over to see a secret slot pop out of the desk. Sherlock pulled out a notebook and smiled as he saw it. Opening it, he looked inside and his eyes widened. John knew that look; it was his interested look. Peaking over, John saw nonsensical letters with a few numbers thrown in here and there. "This is brilliant. An encoded message from our murder victim. This must be what the killer was looking for, only he either didn't have the time or intellect to find it. If we can decode this, we should know at least what our killer wanted if not who the killer is. Come, John!"

Staggering after him, John followed Sherlock out of the room. Lieutenant Thompson was waiting for them as he said. They both followed him and were almost to the exit when John heard his name being called out. "Captain Watson!" Turning, he saw someone running towards them. The man was average height, a bit heavy-set yet built; his brown hair had a buzz cut and his green eyes were sharp. After a few moments, John finally recognised this man as someone he served with in Afghanistan. An army buddy of sorts. Major Andrew Clayworth.

"Major!" John responded, smiling friendly at his former brother.

"It's Lieutenant-Colonel now," he said proudly, motioning towards his insignia.

Surprised, John said, "Congratulations, Lieutenant-Colonel."

"John!" Sherlock yelled, clearly exasperated.

Glancing over, John wanted to hit Sherlock for not giving him five seconds with someone he clearly knew. Instead, he thought of something better. "Lieutenant-Colonel, this is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes," he said, introducing the two. Turning towards Sherlock, John went on, "I served with Lieutenant-Colonel Clayworth in Afghanistan."

"Back then, though, I was just a major," Clayworth pointed out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and examined Clayworth up and down. Immediately, John knew he was going to regret not just walking away with Sherlock. "_Just _a major?" he began to say.

In an attempt to stop Sherlock's train of thought, John cut in, "We really must be going. It was nice seeing you again, and I'm glad you made it back safe." He shot Sherlock a look that told him to be quiet or else. He could see Sherlock's observations were about to emerge from his mouth at any given second.

"We should catch up some time," Clayworth stated in a chipper voice. "It's been a while since we've seen each other, and I haven't really had a good visit to a pub since I returned."

Nodding, John concurred, "We should."

Clayworth reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a card. "Ever heard of the Globe?"

"I have," John responded, nodding.

Clayworth suggested, "Then why don't we meet there tomorrow night? Say around 10?"

"Sure. I'll see you there," John quickly answered before heading towards the door. He called back, "It was good seeing you again!"

"You, too!" Clayworth yelled back.

As soon as they exited the building, John snapped, "Could you not be civil for just two minutes of your life, Sherlock?"

"Would being civil benefit the case?" Sherlock inquired.

Rubbing his temples, John said, "Not everything is about being beneficial to a case or to you, Sherlock. Sometimes, you just need to be civil to people and get nothing in return."

"Why? That's just so," Sherlock paused for a moment, clearly trying to find the proper word, "_inane_, don't you think?"

John retorted, "Actually, I find it rather nice. It's good to know that there are some good people in this world who don't only act with selfish intentions!"

"Everyone is selfish, John. People only act on selfish intentions! Everything anyone does results in making _themselves_ feel better. It's just no one says it outright. Everyone's in so much denial that they don't realise exactly what they're doing!" Sherlock responded, clearly annoyed. At hearing this, John felt anger rush through his veins. He had yet to truly get angry at Sherlock, but he was hitting a sensitive button for John. Unknowingly, Sherlock was bringing up some of John Watson's deepest fears. He looked over to see John's hard expression as he tried to keep Sherlock from seeing through him. After a moment of examination, he said, "You're disappointed in me again."

Looking away, John slightly nodded his head. "Very good," he encouraged mockingly.

"But why?" Sherlock queried, clearly baffled by John's reaction. "Why do you care what I think of the world? You've never let it bother you before." Even if Sherlock would understand, John could not express himself. Instead, he turned on his heels and began heading down the street. "Where are you going?"

"On a walk!" John yelled back, stalking off.

He was seething on the inside, his emotions boiling over. Sherlock always managed to do that to him. Although he could keep a generally cool exterior, Sherlock always saw through it. He could call John out, and John hated feeling vulnerable. Besides, it frustrated him how Sherlock never understood. He could never place himself in John's shoes. How could he even comprehend John's emotion-related insecurities? Of course, he had made the mistake of trusting Sherlock of all people, although he still was not sure _why_ he trusted Sherlock. Since childhood, John had had issues with trust; his sister did not make it any easier for him over the years. The reason he joined the army was because he felt that there would be a bond of trust there. After all, they would be trying to survive and would have to rely on one another to make it through the day. And to an extent, there was. But in his moment of need, John discovered just how alone he was. That was why he returned to London and did not keep in contact with anyone. He just wanted to leave that behind him. And then he had met Sherlock, and his world had been flipped upside-down. Sherlock saw through John, no matter how much he tried to hide everything. Sometimes, John was grateful for it. He did not have to pretend in front of Sherlock. Other times, he hated it. Generally, this happened when Sherlock found being "human" dull, boring, mundane, pointless, senseless, idiotic, and flawed.

Suddenly, John mobile phone gave a pip. He looked down to find an SMS from Sherlock. It read, "I need you to figure out if there was any connection between the five victims. Focus on army ties. –SH." John sighed and shook his head before signalling for a taxi to stop. Just as he slid into the seat, his mobile phone gave another pip. He quickly opened the SMS and read, "And I'm sorry. –SH." Smiling to himself, John appreciated the fact that Sherlock at least tried.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

John looked up and responded, "221B Baker Street."


	2. Night Two

"I'm telling you that there is no other connection!" John snapped. Lack of sleep always made him incredibly irritable. "I've double and tripled checked everything."

Sherlock scowled as he stared at the board. "You mean to tell me nothing besides Afghanistan connects these people?" he pressed.

"Why is that so hard to accept?" John inquired.

Frowning, Sherlock ordered, "Run it by me again."

"Our first victim, Mrs Davenport, was the mother of Samuel Davenport, who served in Afghanistan for a 6 month period, from June until January, last year. Our second victim, Mr Daniel Smith, was the brother-in-law of James Campbell, who has been in Afghanistan since October of last year. Our third victim, Mr William Brown, was a close friend of Michael Alden and was going to be his best man at Adlen's wedding next month. Alden served in Afghanistan for six months, returning to England in December of last year. The fourth victim was a Mrs Kate Cole, an ex-girlfriend and still close friend of Mr Roger Williams, who served in Afghanistan all last year. And then our final victim was a Mr Steven Toulon, who had recently returned from his year-long tour in Afghanistan two months ago," John repeated. "But all of the soldiers are from different parts of the country. They served at different times and in different places. None of them served together; they probably didn't even know each other."

Sherlock stared at the board longer. "There has to be something missing," he murmured to himself. "A hidden piece of the puzzle that would solve everything."

"How is the code coming along?" John inquired.

Quickly, Sherlock corrected, "Cipher."

"How is the cipher coming along?" John asked, knowing Sherlock would not answer until he fixed his previous question.

Sherlock answered, "It's not. The words aren't scrambled. I thought perhaps it was another book code, so I'm having some military manuals sent here. You know, ones that nearly everyone in the army would have."

"Why didn't you ask me for them?" John inquired curiously.

Not looking over, Sherlock replied, "Because you don't have them anymore."

"How could you possibly know something like that?" John asked, slightly baffled by Sherlock's insight once again.

Sherlock said, "You keep all your metals hidden in a box underneath your bed. Your uniform is shoved into the back of your closet where you cannot see it when you get dressed in the morning. You never speak about your time in Afghanistan. All this tells me that you don't like to think about Afghanistan more than you have to. Those books would remind you of your army days and bring back those memories, but unlike your personalised uniform or hard-earned metals, you can sell those books pretty easily or donate them somewhere. You got rid of them almost as soon as you were discharged from the army, am I correct?"

"Yes," John conceded, looking down at the documents in front of him. He checked his watch to see it was time for him to leave, and he was internally grateful. He needed to get away from Sherlock and his all-seeing mind. Rising to his feet, John headed over to grab his jumper.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired.

John answered, "To meet up with Lieutenant-Colonel Clayworth. I promised to drink a beer or two with him in the pub. He wants to catch up."

"Oh. So you're going on – what do you call it again? – a date or something like that?" Sherlock clarified.

A surge of panic rushed through John as he heard the implication before he realised that Sherlock probably did not know what he was suggesting. What bothered him more was why he was panicking on the inside. He did not want Sherlock to get the wrong idea, just as he had wanted the first time he explained what a date was, but this time was different. He did not want Sherlock to falsely believe he was interested in anyone else. "No, no," he laughed, managing to play it off. "We're just going to be chatting and having a few drinks together."

"But you don't like to talk about Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

This statement was true, but it made John feel uncomfortable. He was putting on his jumper when he answered, "That's correct, but I doubt we'll have much more to talk about besides that."

Without another word, John headed down the stairs. He exited the building, glanced both ways, and crossed the street without looking back. Of course he did not want to talk about Afghanistan. Who would want to talk about all senselessness of it all – the death, the fighting, the killing? The sleepless nights trying to save a man bound to die. The screams of pain made by the walking dead. The anticipation for any moment to be the very last. When John had returned to London, he had been planning to leave that all behind him. Unfortunately, his dreams had kept him from doing so for a long time. Only in the last three months had they nearly ceased. John was sure that after tonight they would re-emerge to haunt him.

The pub was just a couple blocks from the apartment. By the time John got there, Clayworth had already found a table had ordered his first beer. John forced a smile to his face as he headed over. "Evening, Lieutenant-Colonel," he greeted.

"Oh, come, we're not at work right now. Call me Andrew," Clayworth responded.

John nodded in acknowledgement. "Very well," he answered before motioning towards a waitress. She quickly walked over with a pen and pad in her hands. "I'll have whatever he's having," John said. Nodding, she hurried off to get him a his drink.

"Are you sure you want to have this?" Clayworth pressed. "You can order something else if you want."

John waved his hand, as if trying to wave off Clayworth's concerns. "I've never been selective when it came to my beer. No such thing as a bad beer here, is there?" he bluffed.

"I suppose not," Clayworth concurred, smiling. "Not after you're away for so long, anyway."

Of course, John had been lying through his teeth. He was relieved that Clayworth seemed oblivious to the lie. It was a nice change from Sherlock, who would have called him out in a second for it. The truth was that John did not care much for alcohol. He never had since his sister became such a heavy drinker. Tea, on the other hand, as something he was very particular about.

"When did you get back?" Clayworth inquired.

Shifting a bit, John answered, "Eight months ago, I believe."

"How did you manage to make it out before your time was up?" Clayworth queried.

John barely kept himself from grimacing. Of course Clayworth would not know about his injury. "I was shot," he said matter-of-factly. "So they discharged me with honours."

"I'm sorry to hear that, mate," Clayworth responded. "You were the best doctor we had on the field."

Forcing a laugh, John shook his head. "I was the _only_ doctor out on the field for your brigade. You lot were so infuriating most of the time that the other doctors almost wanted to see you die out of spite."

Clayworth let out a booming laugh. "We couldn't help it, you know. We were all restless and wanting to go home," he said, trying to defend himself and his brigade.

"Here you are, sir," the waitress said as she placed a glass full of beer on the table.

Nodding, John murmured, "Thank you." He took a sip out of courtesy before setting the glass back down. "Enjoying London so far?"

"Very much so," Clayworth said with a nod. "It's a lot cooler here, thought."

John laughed as he heard this. "I remember when I first returned. I wore a jumper when it got below 21 degrees. It took a while to get used to the weather again, but I somehow managed," he stated, glad they had moved onto another topic.

"Very true. But I guess some things follow you home, no?" Clayworth replied. "Such as death. I cannot believe that someone was murdered at work today. Even at home, we cannot escape it." He paused a moment before asking, "Why were you there anyway? Do you work directly with the government now?"

Shaking his head frantically, John explained, "Do you remember the man I introduced you to today? Sherlock Holmes?"

"I do," Clayworth responded.

John continued, "He and I work together. He's more or less a private detective, although he would tell you different. And he's my flatmate."

"Oh. Are you two…" Clayworth let his voice trail purposefully.

Eyes widening, John quickly said, "No, no! We're just flatmates and colleagues. Nothing else."

"Not that there is anything wrong with it," Clayworth commented before taking another drink of beer.

John nodded slightly. "I know, but that doesn't change anything," he replied, feeling the need to also take a sip of beer.

Just as he reached for his beer, he felt his pocket vibrate. He reached in and grabbed his mobile to find an SMS from Sherlock. Sighing, he opened the message and read, "I need a pen. –SH."

"Sorry," John muttered as he went to send a reply. Quickly, John texted back, "Sherlock, I'm at the pub, remember? –JW."

Just as he went to place his mobile back in his pocket, he felt it vibrate again. He looked down and opened the message only to read, "Still? Didn't you leave hours ago? –SH."

John clenched his jaw. Sherlock could remember several alphabets, the 483 different types of tobacco, how the different dialects sound, but could not for the life of him remember when John left! "No. I left about 10 minutes ago. –JW."

"Your sister?" Clayworth inquired. He must have noticed the expression of frustration on John's face.

Looking up, John subconsciously hit send as he answered, "Surprisingly enough, no. It's Sherlock. He forgot I was out and was asking me to do something."

His mobile vibrated again. Swiftly, John opened the SMS and read, "Well, when are you getting back then? I really do need that pen. –SH."

"Sherlock? Your flatmate? What does he want from you?" Clayworth asked. "I mean, if you need to go then go. We can meet up some other time."

"No, no, no. It's nothing important, really," John answered. He quickly typed, "I don't know. Get your own bloody pen! –JW." As soon as the SMS was sent, he dropped the phone into his jumper pocket so he could no longer hear or feel the vibration.

Clayworth inquired, "How did you meet Mr Holmes?"

"Through a mutual acquaintance," John answered. Not wanting for the entire evening to be about his last eight months with Sherlock, John inquired, "Are you still dating that girl? What was her name? Lily? Lucy?"

"Lacy, actually. Lacy Peters. And no. Apparently, distance does not make the heart grow fonder," Clayworth explained.

Feeling awkward, John shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of beer. When he set it back down, he apologised, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up a sensitive subject."

"Oh, this happened months ago, John. Don't worry too much about it," Clayworth responded.

Nodding, John somehow managed to come up with a somewhat normal conversation. They talked about London, the differences between London and Afghanistan. They then branched into a couple memories of their service together. Although they had only worked together for two months, there was plenty of memories to go around. Both managed to stay far away from any painful memories, though. Each had a silent understanding of what the other did and did not want to talk about. By the end of the night, Clayworth had drank six beers to John's two. Clayworth motioned for the waitress.

"Checks, please," he asked. Nodding, she headed to the register to ring them up. Clayworth turned back to John and said, "Well, it's been a fun night. I'm glad we had a chance to catch up."

John agreed, "One of the most fun nights I've had in a while."

"We should meet up again sometime," Clayworth suggested. "Without Lacy, I don't have much to do with my evenings besides watch telly. It would be nice to get out a bit more, you know? Before they ship me off somewhere else, I mean."

John smiled and answered, "I understand completely." Suddenly, the waitress appeared by their table. She handed Clayworth a check and turned to walk away. "Miss!" John called out after her, making her stop dead in her tracks. "We're separate, actually."

"Oh, your check has already been paid for, sir," she responded.

Confused, John inquired, "By whom, may I ask?"

She paused and opened up her small notebook. After flipping a couple of pages, she answered, "By a Mr Holmes, sir."

"Sherlock!" John said under his breath.

Raising his eyebrows, Clayworth noted, "That was kind of your flatmate."

"No, it wasn't. Everything Sherlock does is for himself. He probably paid my bill so I would come back to the flat faster," he murmured darkly, reaching into his jumper pocket. He opened up his mobile and wrote, "If you keep doing things like paying for my drinks when you're not even here, people are going to start talking. –JW."

As John snapped his phone shut, Clayworth handed the waitress some money. "Then I will hear from you again soon?" he inquired as the waitress walked away.

Throwing on his jumper, John answered, "Of course. I still have your card." He pulled the card out of his pocket to prove his point. Earlier that night, Clayworth had given it to him so they could keep in contact.

"I look forward to it," Clayworth said as they both headed out the door. "Evening, John."

John called back, "Evening, Andrew."

With that, John glanced both ways and dashed across the street. As soon as he crossed, he felt his pocket vibrate. He quickly grabbed his mobile and opened the SMS. "What are you talking about? I didn't pay for your drinks. –SH."

John blinked a few times after reading that sentence. When the waitress said, "Mr Holmes," he had just assumed that Sherlock was behind it. But if it was not Sherlock, it had to be-

The phone in his hands began to ring. _Blocked Number_. Answering it, John said, "Mycroft, if you wanted to thank me, you could have just sent flowers."

"I figured this would be a more practical. Besides, you could always do with a bit of money, no? You only ordered two drinks tonight," Mycroft replied.

John curtly stated, "I'm not much of a drinker."

"No, I don't suppose you would be. Your sister more than makes up for the two of you," Mycroft noted nonchalantly.

Ignoring the comment, John said, "I'm assuming you called me for a reason?"

"I need an update, but Sherlock is ignoring my messages. I was rather hoping you would be able to inform me how the investigation is coming along," Mycroft explained.

John responded, "Last time I checked, we haven't made too much progress. We're still trying to definitively connect the victims. All we have is Afghanistan, but nothing beyond that."

"As soon as you learn something new, contact me," Mycroft ordered before the call went dead.

Rolling his eyes, John shook his head and dropped his mobile back into his pocket. The Holmes brothers were going to eventually drive him insane. He did not know how or when, but he knew it would happen. Subconsciously, he turned and opened the door to 221 Baker Street. Heading up the stairs, he heard Sherlock pacing the floor. So Sherlock hadn't made any progress since he left. Opening the door, John took off his jumper and folded it over his arm.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I couldn't find a pen. And what was this about paid drinks?"

John walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and tossed Sherlock a pen. "Your brother paid for my drinks tonight. When the waitress said 'Mr Holmes,' though, I thought she was referring to you," he explained.

"Probably wanted to know what we have so far. I take it he has called you," Sherlock started to say before pausing and looking over at John in confusion. "Why would I ever pay for your drinks?"

Floundering to find a proper answer, John retorted, "I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe I had hoped that for the first time in your life you were expressing kindness towards someone. You know, a human emotion? I should have figured that no matter if it was your brother or you that there would have been a way for it to benefit you. Good night, Sherlock, and good luck." He turned on his heels to head to bed.

"Wait!" Sherlock called out. John hesitated. "You aren't going to help me?"

Laughing under his breath, John replied, "No, Sherlock, I'm going to go to bed. Because unlike you, I actually need sleep. Besides, you were solving cases before I helped, so I'm sure you can do it now without me staying up all night. Good night, Sherlock!"

Only silence answered him as he stalked off to his room. John took his time getting ready for bed. After he pulled a couple of all-nighters, he learned to appreciate his pre-sleeping habits. Laying down, he closed his eyes and relaxed completely in his bed. He drifted off into the abyss of sleep.

"_Move, move, move!" a soldier called out as an explosion made the earth beneath them tremble. Earth and rocks sprayed over the group as they hunkered down behind the only shelter around: a tank. Adrenaline rushed through John's veins as he realised they were under attack. A blood-curdling scream sounded out, and John turned around to see a soldier clutching his leg. Quickly, another soldier grabbed him and pulled him behind their cover. As the others fired at their invisible enemy, John headed over to the wounded soldier. He forcibly removed the soldier's hand to find the bullet had hit the femoral artery. Blood was gushing from the wound, covering John's hands in seconds. Quickly, he grabbed his knife and cut off the trouser leg just above the injury. He tied it tightly just above the wound, knowing that if they could not get out of their soon then the future was not looking too bright for the soldier. A groan sounded out next to him, barely audible over the rain of bullets. Turning, John watched as another soldier fell to the ground. Blood stained sand in a second. He did not need to go over there to know the soldier was dead. The firing was getting closer. If they did not get in the tank and out of there, they were going to be pinned down. Another explosion went off just meters away from them, and John's ears began ringing because of it. Then John felt something hit him. Turning, he looked down and horror iced his blood. Sitting right next to him was a grenade._

Gasping for breath, John jerked awake in his bed. He panicked for a moment, falling out of his bed as he tried to find his gun. Once his senses came to, he tried to calm down. He was drenched in cold sweat, his adrenaline was still racing through him, his breath was ragged and heavy, and he was trembling violently. Looking over at the clock, John concentrated long enough to see it was almost three in the morning. He quickly changed out of his clothes before heading downstairs. Hopefully, Sherlock had either figured out what happened or was off somewhere else investigating. John did not want Sherlock to see him in this state. Everything was silent, so John emerged into the living room. Much to his dismay, Sherlock was still awake. He was laying on the sofa, clearly trying to think through the case.

"John?" Sherlock inquired.

After a moment's hesitation, John responded, "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I want a cup of tea," Sherlock said. These childish demands from Sherlock were nothing new to John. Without saying anything, he headed into the kitchen and opened up a cabinet. Grabbing the first tea he saw, John was startled when he heard, "No, not that one. Mrs Hudson gave me some tea for Christmas. Make that instead."

Searching through the cabinet, John found an unfamiliar tea – called Kava-Kava tea – and figured that must have been from Mrs Hudson. Out of habit, John brewed the tea and poured two cups. As soon as he poured the second cup, he realised his mistake. He had not been planning to drink tea, but he refused to just waste a cup of tea because of his mistake. Heading into the living room with the tray, he set it on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock promptly sat up, picked up a cup, and headed across the room. Sitting on the sofa, John looked at the board to see if Sherlock had figured out anything new.

"John, send Mycroft an SMS for me," Sherlock ordered.

John picked the mobile phone up off the coffee table. "What do you want it to say?" he asked.

"Tell my elder brother that I know he is keeping something from me, and if he doesn't tell me what it is soon, I am going to stop investigating," Sherlock said.

John paraphrased, making sure that it sounded somewhat polite. After sending the text, John set the mobile back on the table and picked up his cup of tea once more. He took a sip and relaxed back into the sofa and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he heard the violin. Opening an eye, he watched for a moment as Sherlock played it. As always, the music sounded wonderful. The song being played was soft, slow, and somewhat sad. John lost himself in the warmth and scent of the tea and the different, enchanting notes. Before he knew it, his eyes were heavy. John set his teacup and saucer on the table and shifted on the couch to make himself more comfortable. Breathing slowed, John was about to fall asleep when there was a light rapping on the door. He was too tired to stir, and he knew Sherlock would handle it. Probably poorly, but he would handle it. Sherlock stopped playing the violin as the door creaked open.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said curtly… coldly. "To what do I owe the honour?" he inquired sarcastically. John heard footsteps head towards him. They stopped right next to John, who did not give a rat's ass that Mycroft was in their flat right then; all he wanted to do was sleep. "Do not touch him. He's resting," Sherlock snarled.

There was a clinking of glass right in front of him, and it took John a moment to realize it was the lid of the teapot being placed back on the pot. "Kava-Kava tea. Good for anxiety, mild panic attacks, stress, and inducing deep sleep. Should I be concerned for my little brother?" The last question was asked mockingly.

"The tea was for John," Sherlock stated, dismissing him. John felt surprised as he heard this… and humiliated. Sherlock must have known he had a nightmare. But for once, he was tactful about it; he made it so John would not notice that he knew.

Mycroft said, "Ah… His posttraumatic stress disorder returning?" Sherlock did not respond. John could hear the violin bow whistling through the air. "Was he screaming?" Mycroft pressed.

"Why did you come here, Mycroft?" Sherlock inquired.

Mycroft chuckled. "I was answering your summons, dear brother. Now answer my question."

"What does it matter if he was screaming or not?" Sherlock snapped back.

There was a moment of silence between the two before Mycroft said, "So he was."

"What does it matter?" Sherlock spat out each word vehemently.

Mycroft murmured, "Quiet, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to wake the poor chap up, now would you? After all, he just fell back asleep." John could feel a pair of eyes watching him and remained perfectly still, not wanting to give himself away. "Pity, really. They say a soldier never truly recovers from PTSD. Those memories are always waiting in the shadows to re-emerge at a moment's notice."

"Enough about John. What are you keeping from me?" Sherlock snapped.

John could hear Mycroft turn away from him, and he subconsciously relaxed. "I'm not keeping anything from you, little brother. That was one of our conditions, was it not?"

"The only connection between the soldiers is Afghanistan. All five were in Afghanistan at the same time from October to November. Two months. What happened during those two months in Afghanistan? There has to be something that connects these soldiers," Sherlock reasoned aloud.

Mycroft replied, "As I said before, I am not keeping anything from you. And I cannot exactly have my people rooting around in our country's affairs in Afghanistan. It might draw unwanted attention."

"You really don't know anything?" Sherlock clarified, sounding slightly mystified.

Quickly, Mycroft answered, "Despite what you believe, little brother, I do only play a minor role in the government. I do not have the highest clearance, and I must abide by certain rules. Therefore, I do not have the information you need in regards to this. If you wish to know more about duty in Afghanistan, perhaps you should ask your flatmate about it. He could help you more than I." A moment of silence passed between the two brothers. "If that is all, I will be leaving. Good luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing in return. Instead, he began playing the violin once more. The sad, soft music filled the air, eventually drowning out Mycroft's distancing footsteps. Relaxing, John lost himself in the music once more. Before he knew it, sleep embraced his tired mind and body.


	3. Day Three

Groaning, John stretched out on the sofa. He paused a moment, trying to remember how he had gotten there. The memories from last night came rushing into mind, and John groaned as he remembered everything. Pathetic – he had been absolutely pathetic last night to let Sherlock know he was having a nightmare. He had always been so cautious about keeping it from Sherlock's attention, and now he was completely humiliated. Senses finally becoming alert, he smelled Sherlock uncomfortably close to him. Confused, he opened his eyes to find Sherlock's trench coat covering him. He was completely astounded that Sherlock was too lazy to get him a proper blanket yet actually put forth the energy to cover John with something. Suddenly, he heard a movement coming from the kitchen. Sherlock emerged with two coffee cups in his hands. In three long strides, he was standing next to John and offering him the other cup. John took it gingerly, blowing the steam away. How unusual for Sherlock to be so domestic.

"Is this another one of your experiments?" John asked guardedly, examining the coffee closely. The last time Sherlock had experimented on him, it had been to induce a hallucination of a hound. The experience had been so traumatic that John still did not trust Sherlock whenever he made a cup of coffee.

Sherlock replied, "I assure you that your coffee is safe to drink."

"That wasn't my question," John pointed out, about to set the cup down.

Sherlock finally said, "I'm not performing an experiment. After all, you forbade me from doing so ever again without your permission. Your coffee is safe." At hearing this, John tentatively took a sip. It tasted fine, considering Sherlock had made it, and Sherlock had remembered to leave out the sugar. John look a longer drink, and Sherlock said, "I'm going to need you to tell me about Afghanistan."

Sputtering, John coughed as his coffee went down the wrong pipe. He gasped for air and glared up at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what?" he rasped.

"The only connection between the victims is the fact that they all knew someone who served in Afghanistan. Something must have happened over there when all of them were in Afghanistan at the same time, which only happened for two months," Sherlock reasoned. "But since such information is sensitive, I know that I cannot research it as I normally would. Mycroft claims he knows nothing, but I doubt he is actually telling me the truth. In any case, I need to know the norms of serving in Afghanistan, and I just so happen to have an expert in that area sitting right in front of me."

John shook his head furiously, his mind locking up as he listened. "No, Sherlock," he said stubbornly. "It doesn't work like that. I can't- I mean- Just no!"

"You talked about it last night," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

Pressing his lips together in disdain, John snapped, "That has nothing to do with this!"

"You still cannot come to terms with what happened to you," Sherlock noted, his expression changing from indifferent to interest.

John could not take it anymore. He felt incredibly vulnerable with Sherlock observing everything and stating it so calmly. "Enough!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "You're not my bloody psychiatrist, Sherlock. You're my flatmate, and you have no right prying into my past. Especially when I don't want to chat about it." Sherlock appeared startled by the reaction, and John realised it must have been the first time he ever yelled at Sherlock. Suddenly, John felt his face heat up as he grasped the fact that he had just overreacted. Unable to handle the silence any longer, John headed towards the front door.

"How long are you going to run away from your past?" Sherlock called out.

John stopped dead in his tracks, his back to Sherlock. Laughing bitterly, he said, "You of all people have no right to criticise me. You, who is convinced that having _sentiment_ is a weakness."

"And it is," he responded, cutting John off. "Had you no sentiment, you would not be suffering so."

Tears burned at the back of John's eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall. "And that is why you could never understand," he whispered, his heart breaking slightly. Secretly, he wanted to tell Sherlock. He wanted to let Sherlock into that dark part of his life – to open up completely and be accepted by his best friend. By his only friend. By the only person who mattered in his life. But that would never happen. No matter how much he wanted to tell Sherlock, he knew that Sherlock would never understand, and that is why he kept silent. To suffer in silence was more welcoming than to be mocked by Sherlock about such a sensitive part of his past. Besides, Sherlock only wanted to know for the case. He had never asked before about Afghanistan; he had never even pretended to care. Everything was a means to an end – to Sherlock's end. And that hurt John the most. "I'm going to the market. If you need to know more about Afghanistan, get Mycroft to help you," he said darkly.

With that, John headed out the door and down the stairs. Mrs Hudson greeted him, and John barely acknowledged her existence as he rushed outside. Not daring to look back, John hurried down the street. The market was just an excuse, of course, to get some time to be left alone to his thoughts. Sherlock managed to frustrate him so much that John had to wonder why he trusted the man in the first place. Why he cared. Scowling, John made a sharp left, not looking before he crossed the street. The screeching of tires alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. Looking up, John froze for a second as he watched a car driving straight at him. Adrenaline shot through his veins as soon as everything was processed. His soldier instincts kicked in at the last moment, and he leapt out of the road in time. Shaking, John stared at the street as the car raced around the corner and disappeared.

"For God's sake, this is a pedestrian street!" someone cursed.

"Tourists these days. I bet you it was bloody Americans," another person commented.

A stranger approached John. "You alright, mate?" he asked.

"Yeah," John managed to say, still shocked. He stared at the street a couple moments longer, trying to process what had just happened. "Thanks, mate," he managed to say.

After he paused a moment longer, John turned and walked down the sidewalk. He debated on whether or not he should tell Sherlock about what had just happened before deciding against it. Nothing had happened, after all. He had gotten away unscathed, and he couldn't tell if he had been targeted. Without decisive information, John could only make wild accusations. Besides, it is not like Sherlock would care. Sherlock would most likely tell John he should have let himself to be hit by the car for either some financial or experimental benefit.

Turning again, John wandered into the market. He glanced from stall to stall, not seeing anything he desired to buy. Each of the sellers would call out to him, beckoning him to come over and buy whatever they had. Every time, John would ignore them and keep walking. He got through the market and decided that he really did not need to buy anything. And now he had not lied to Sherlock since he had gone to the market. Suddenly, John felt his mobile buzz once… twice… three times. He quickly realised he was receiving a call and snatched the phone out of his pocket. _Blocked Number._

"John Watson," he said after answering the call.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft greeted him.

Shaking his head, John smiled. "I'm beginning to believe you changed your contact name to Blocked Number on my mobile for a good laugh," he commented.

"No injuries then, I take it," Mycroft responded, ignoring John's previous statement.

John blinked in surprise. "Are you watching me?" he asked incredulously as he searched for cameras around him. There were five that he could see at a glance, but only one was turned away from the inside of the store, which is where it should be facing.

"I heard your disagreement with my brother this morning and thought you might do something stupid," Mycroft informed him.

John started to ask, "How did you-" when he realised exactly how Mycroft knew about their argument. "Did you bug our flat?"

"I had to be sure that Sherlock was not keeping anything from me. I don't think he understands just how sensitive this case is. Until we find out who did this, we have a huge breach in our security," Mycroft reasoned.

Rubbing his forehead, John closed his eyes. "Sherlock might not understand how sensitive this case is, Mycroft, but I do. For God's sake, I served for this country! There is no need to bug our flat in order to ensure you'll get the information needed. I'll make sure you get it," he stated, irritated. He barely got any privacy living with Sherlock, so he sure as Hell did not need Mycroft prying into his personal life as well.

"Did my little brother make you so angry this morning that you're willing to switch sides?" Mycroft asked, sounding surprised. "How interesting. Afghanistan must be a very sensitive subject for you, considering how loyal you've been to my brother since you met him." Seething still, John fought the urge to hang up his mobile phone. When silence was his only response, Mycroft continued, "In any case, I called to warn you to stay alert, Dr Watson. Whoever was driving that car was most definitely targeting you."

John managed to say, "Thank you for the warning. I'll keep my eyes open."

"Do so, Dr Watson. I would hate to see the state my little brother would be in if he lost his flatmate," Mycroft stated before ending the call.

Mycroft's last statement baffled John. The state _Sherlock_ would be in? Sherlock would be fine if something happened to him. After all, it was not like Sherlock felt anything for John. That would require sentiment, which Sherlock consistently denounced ever having. No, Sherlock would be okay if something happened to John. Hell, he probably would not realise John had even left the flat until he got the call. Lord knows that Sherlock never registered when John was there or not now. So John was sure that Sherlock's life would go on, with or without him there. He also knew the opposite was true for himself. If Sherlock were to somehow die, John would lose everything. That was how much Sherlock meant to him. Sighing, John shook his head. He did not know when he had become so dependent on Sherlock, but he had. And now he had to deal with the consequences of living and loving a high-functioning sociopath.

Suddenly, John's mobile vibrated again. He pulled it out to see an SMS from Sherlock. "We're out of milk," it said.

"We're always out of milk," John muttered to himself before turning around to backtrack in order to get some.

He went into the store, bought the milk, and headed back to 221B Baker Street. On his way back, he made sure to remain alert for the unmarked vehicle that had taken a swipe at him earlier. He entered the building and headed up the stairs. Much to his surprise, Sherlock was gone. He hoped that Sherlock had realised something and was out solving their case. Putting the milk into the refrigerator, John made sure to keep it far away from the human heart and stomach that was on the lowest shelf. One of these days, Sherlock's experiments would infect their food and kill both of them.

John then turned back around and headed back into the living room to examine the board. On it was several different attempts to translate the diary, each of them leading to a dead end. There were also photos of each of the victims, the warnings written, and the information of the soldier each of them knew. A map of the UK and Afghanistan was off to one corner, each with different dots to signify where the soldiers had been. Taking a moment, John tried several different ways to connect the dots to find that no pattern existed.

"Figure anything out?" a voice asked.

Jerking around, John found Sherlock standing in the doorway. There was no telling how long he had been standing there, watching him. "No," he answered honestly. "Milk's in the fridge."

"I don't care about the milk. What do you see?" Sherlock pressed.

John hesitated a moment, but Sherlock was looking at him so earnestly that he could not help but entertain him. Turning back to the board, John started stating his observations, "The victims are from different parts of the country, so no connection there. The dots don't form any specific pattern either, so if there is a next victim, we cannot predict who it might be. Each person was killed by someone's bare hands, which means that whoever killed them had some knowledge in hand-to-hand combat. They were all killed without any witnesses, which means that the killer also knew their schedule or is a lucky sod. And if the killer knew their schedule, that means he had the time to watch them and learn about their daily habits."

"And the warnings?" Sherlock pressed.

John frowned. "They were written at each crime scene in different ways. Whatever was convenient at the time. But the killer made sure they were legible," he said, unsure of what Sherlock was seeing that he was not.

"And?" Sherlock asked, pushing for a bit more.

Sighing, John inquired, "And what?"

"I had been hoping for to you to dive a bit deeper," Sherlock said, sighing. "The warnings were clearly left for someone else. After all, dead people don't need warnings anymore. Common sense tells me that they are warnings for the soldiers. Someone wants them to know that they are vulnerable. They could be next. And because he does not get more specific than a warning and a number, it tells me that the soldiers know what the killer is referring to. Which leads us back to Afghanistan once more."

John looked back at the map of Afghanistan. "Well, how about this: each soldier was stationed in combat zones," he said. Sherlock's eyes widened as he heard this. "They would be seeing a lot of fighting while over there."

"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured, heading over to the board. "They were all combating in Afghanistan. Could they have crossed each other in the battlefield?"

Shaking his head, John looked back over at the map. "They were all stationed too far away from each other to run across one another by coincidence," he said before freezing. He became rigid as realization washed over him. "Of course – of course. That would explain everything," he murmured.

"What?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

John glanced around the flat first, not sure if he wanted Mycroft to know what he was about to tell Sherlock. After all, he could not be sure how Mycroft would react to John telling Sherlock some of the more carefully secured military secrets. In a low voice, he murmured, "Mycroft has the flat wired."

Sherlock's eyes flashed as he looked around the room. Then he blinked twice and realization washed over him. He headed over to the coffee table, which still had the tray, teapot, teacups, and saucers from the day before. After a few moments of rummaging, Sherlock held something up in the air. He clicked his tongue and dropped the small device into John's now cold coffee.

"There," Sherlock said, turning back towards John. "Now what were you going to tell me?"

John responded, "There are some sensitive operations that happen overseas. Whether they are sensitive because of the target or because of what the soldiers have to do, they are kept completely secret. Only the people who give the orders and the people who receive them know about the mission. The soldiers chosen for each mission are selected through a very extensive system, each for his own specific skill set. They do not necessarily have to be from the same brigade or even the same region."

"Were you ever sent out on one of these missions?" Sherlock inquired curiously. His eyes burned into John's flesh.

Staring pointedly at the map of Afghanistan, John replied, "I can't tell you something like that, Sherlock. Besides, it's better if you don't know about Afghanistan. The point is that these soldiers might be connected if they performed a mission together."

"How can we find out if they did?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "Unfortunately, there should be no paper trail. If such a mission goes wrong, no one should be able to trace it back to the country or persons responsible. Not even Mycroft would know about it," he explained.

"Which places more importance on the encoded journal," Sherlock murmured

Without saying a word, Sherlock headed over to their table. He picked up the journal once more and began slowly flipping through the pages. John sighed and headed into the kitchen in order to make some lunch. Sherlock was bound to be silent for the rest of the day, which meant John could actually get work done. It was about time he finished writing about their last investigation anyway.


	4. Day Four

John staggered into the kitchen, heading towards the refrigerator. Blinking slowly, John wished he could go back to bed. He knew it would not do him any good. After all, his sleep had been marred by night terrors and memories of Afghanistan. Opening the fridge, John saw some left over spaghetti Mrs Hudson must have brought them. Not wanting to put forth any effort in making breakfast, John grabbed the spaghetti, planning to heat some up. As he set it on the table, John turned back to get a spoon and plate. He had just the plate on the table and was about to take the lid off the spaghetti when a yell stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't eat that!" Sherlock shouted, hurrying into the kitchen. John all but leapt away from the spaghetti bowl. Quickly, Sherlock grabbed it and put it back in the refrigerator. "I'm experimenting how different poisons interact in food."

Sighing, John made sure to keep his temper in check. It was not Sherlock's fault that he had not slept the night before. He responded, "Then would you mind writing some sort of note to let me know? You only inherit on the condition that you were not the direct cause of my death, which includes but it not limited to your many experiments."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he heard this, and he stared at John for a long moment. "I'll inherit when you die?" he clarified.

"Of course you'll inherit when I die," John replied nonchalantly. "You're my flatmate, after all. But if I die because of one of your stupid ideas, I've made sure you won't be rewarded for it. Think of it as my last spiteful action."

A long moment of silence passed between the two of them. Finally, Sherlock asked, "Who else would inherit besides me?"

"Mrs Hudson's been left something as an apology for sticking her with you," John replied, pausing a moment as he thought back. "Obviously, Harriet will also inherit from me. And Lestrade will inherit a thing or two in hopes that he won't kill you if you resort back to your former ways."

Sherlock then pressed, "What will I inherit?" He seemed like a little kid trying to figure out what he was going to get for his birthday.

"You'll find out when I die," John answered matter-of-factly. "Until then, either deduce it for yourself or enjoy the surprise."

Falling silent, Sherlock stared at John for a long moment. John actually worried for a second that Sherlock would figure everything out. That moment passed, and Sherlock said nothing. He had no "Ah ha!" moment. His eyes did not widen in realisation nor did his mouth drop into the perfect oval it made when he figured something out. Instead, he just turned away and headed back into the living room.

Checking the fridge again, John called out, "Is the fruit safe?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

John grabbed an apple and headed into living room. "Have you deciphered the code yet?" he inquired as he looked at the board.

"No," Sherlock said curtly. "I've been searching through every known military code or cipher only to come up empty-handed."

Frowning, John pointed out, "Perhaps it has nothing to do with the military."

Sherlock whirled around, his sharp eyes capturing John's. "What do you mean?" he pressed.

"Well, you assume that the killer is a soldier, correct?" John began, making sure he correctly understood what was going through Sherlock's mind.

"That's correct," Sherlock answered.

John nodded towards the board. "Then why don't we also assume that the victim wrote a code unknown to the military in case someone came across the notebook? If he was writing down sensitive information, another soldier found it and quickly decoded it, and then that soldier took it to his superiors, our victim would have been branded as a traitor. So he wouldn't want to make it so easy for his colleagues to read," he reasoned.

"Of course. Stupid, stupid!" Sherlock muttered, chastising himself. "I just wasted two days trying to decode it using those keys."

Looking at the code, John shook his head. "Why don't we take a break?" he asked.

"I don't need a break," Sherlock responded.

John shook his head as he heard this. As always, Sherlock was stubborn. "I never said you needed a break," he responded. "I just thought it would be nice if we could get out of our flat for an hour or two. Take a walk. Get something to eat."

"You know I don't eat while on the job," Sherlock said, not entertaining John's idea for even second.

Unable to control himself anymore, John retorted, "Why can't you just entertain me for once, Sherlock? God knows I do everything you ask for. Get your cell phone, send texts, follow you blindly, pull all-nighters, make sure you're fed, make sure you have everything you need, and the moment I ask you for one thing – one damn thing, Sherlock – you fight me tooth and nail."

Sherlock gazed at John for a long moment. "Your left hand is slightly trembling, and your gait is slightly uneven. You have got bags under your eyes, which are bloodshot, and the circles under your eyes have become darker. Since you've been awake, you've been showing horizontal optokinetic nystagmus. Lately, you've been in an easily irritable mood. Coupled with your sleeping habits the last couple of nights, you're currently suffering from sleep deprivation," he observed. "You should go back to bed, not out and about the town."

"I don't want to go back to bed," John responded, not caring how childish that sounded.

"Are they getting worse?" Sherlock inquired, and John could hear a touch of concern in his voice.

John glared out the window. "You already know that answer, Sherlock. You can hear me every night. Am I wrong?"

At first, only silence answered him. "You are correct," Sherlock finally answered. Then there was another moment's silence. "I suppose Angelo would not mind if we popped in for a few."

Surprised, John looked over at Sherlock with wide eyes. He had never known for Sherlock to be so willing to change his mind about anything. Evolve his ideas, sure, with new information that came along. But he had gained no new information in their previous conversation. Could this possibly be Sherlock Holmes showing _sentiment_? Sherlock headed towards the door, pausing only a moment to put on his trench coat and scarf. Quietly and quickly, John grabbed his jumper as well, putting in on as they descended the stairs. They crossed the street and headed down an alley in the direction of Angelo's.

"This case is taking longer than I expected," Sherlock admitted quietly. John didn't comment, knowing that that was not Sherlock's complete thought. After a moment of silence, Sherlock continued, "As long as we're missing that piece of the puzzle, I can't deduce who killed all of them. Or the reason behind the killings."

John shrugged. "Probably to silence them," he said matter-of-factly.

"That's one of six possibilities," Sherlock answered. "And those are just the possibilities created with the information we have right now. I need to figure out how to decode that journal."

"You'll figure it out," John encouraged.

Sherlock stared at him as if he was an idiot. "Of course I'll figure it out," he said, sounding slightly insulted.

"I just mean-" John began before shaking his head. Even if he explained, Sherlock still would not understand. "You know what? Never mind."

As always, Sherlock just let the conversation drop, which John appreciated. When he had been in the army, his fellows would always push him to voice his opinions or thoughts. Although John had never been particularly good at voicing complicated emotions or thoughts, he would eventually stammer through whatever he wanted to say. That was part of the reason he had hated going to his psychiatrist. She, too, would always push him to voice everything, and he found himself at a loss of words. With Sherlock, he could drop a conversation whenever he wanted without worrying about Sherlock pushing him to go on. And he was becoming better at expressing everything with every blog post he made.

"John?" Sherlock called out.

Coming to a halt, John turned to find Sherlock a couple meters behind him. "What's wrong?" he inquired, unsure as to why they were stopping.

"We're here," Sherlock answered, motioning towards the building right next to them.

John quickly backtracked. "Sorry," he muttered as Sherlock opened the door. He slipped underneath Sherlock's arm and headed into the restaurant.

"Mr Holmes!" Angelo cried out happily, smiling broadly as he saw them. "And your boyfriend, too! I am honoured."

"Colleague," John corrected after a beat. He had not been as quick as normal, but he blamed his sleep deprivation instead of his wishful thinking. "We're just colleagues."

Angelo nodded and kept smiling, but John knew he had not been paying attention. "What would you like to eat?" he inquired.

"The usual," Sherlock said. Without even addressing John, Angelo walked off towards the back. John was baffled. Slack jawed, he just stared at Angelo as he walked away. "You're never going to attract any women like that," Sherlock commented as he pulled something out of his trench coat. It was the notebook and a pen.

Brows furrowing, John clarified, "You actually brought that with you?"

"You didn't actually believe I would leave this behind now that I know it has nothing to do with the military, do you?" Sherlock inquired.

Angelo set down a teacup in a saucer in front of John. John waved his acknowledgement and thanks, forgetting for a split second that he still needed to order. There were more pressing matters. "We just can't do anything nice together, can we?" he joked. "We only ever eat out when we're on a case – and by 'we,' I mean me."

Sherlock looked confused, clearly not catching the teasing hint in Sherlock's voice. "Why would we go out when not on a case? What would we do if we weren't waiting for someone or working on something?" he asked. He looked legitimately mystified by the suggestion.

"Normal people go out to eat, Sherlock," John pointed out. "They go to a restaurant and talk to one another about whatever – the weather, their day, their job, their bosses, their family, and so on."

Frowning, Sherlock looked back down at the notebook. "How dull," he murmured.

Suddenly, John had a plate set in front of him. His meal consisted of Shepherd's pie, mashed potatoes, and vegetables, which is what he had eaten the last couple of times they had been there. He was baffled that he had not even ordered anything and wound up with a delicious meal sitting in front of them. And then he remembered what Sherlock said: "The usual." Blinking, John felt a bit moved that Angelo cared enough about them to remember what they – or, really, he – got every time they came in. He smiled a bit before digging into the meal. Maybe this time, he would be able to finish it without them rushing off somewhere first.

Sherlock was ignorant to everything around him, drawn completely into the journal. His eyes scanned each page carefully, sometimes backtracking to reread something. Just by looking at him, John could tell that Sherlock's brain was working overtime. John took another bite and turned away from Sherlock. The last thing he needed was for his flatmate to finally realise that he cared for him more than just a friend would. Sherlock was more than just dear to him. He was the only person John blindingly trusted, and he would be the only person John trusted that much. But that did not change the fact that Sherlock was a difficult person to love. He was a man not based on sentiment while John was. And John knew that it would be next to impossible for Sherlock to fall in love with him. His heart gave a sharp ache of pain.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock queried, making John jump slightly in surprise.

Swallowing what was left in his mouth, John responded, "I'm sorry?"

"You're eating 13% slower than normal," Sherlock explained, still not looking up from his notebook. "Something's on your mind."

John quickly lied, "Afghanistan." He did not know what else to do. After all, it was not like he could just confess his feelings. And even if he did, Sherlock would probably just explain to him once again about how he was "married to his work" and was not interested in John like that.

"Ah," Sherlock responded absent-mindedly. A moment of silence passed between the two of them. Just as John believed that Sherlock had gone back to decoding, Sherlock said, "You could always – I mean, if you wanted – talk to me about it. About Afghanistan, I mean." A beat of silence passed before he awkwardly continued, "And I don't mean just for the case. I read that it might do you some good. Something about reliving traumatic experiences and rewriting your reactions to them. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but I do recall that it will help. So… yeah…"

John smiled encouragingly. Once more, Sherlock was trying his best to be a friend, even if he did not quite know what that meant just yet. "Thank you, Sherlock, but had I wanted to talk about Afghanistan, I would have already done so with my psychiatrist," he pointed out gently.

"Talking to me would be different," Sherlock muttered childishly.

Chuckling, John replied, "I'm sure it would be."

The rest of their meal was spent in silence, Sherlock engrossed in the notebook while John tried to focus on anything besides their case and the man sitting next to him. As soon as John finished eating, Sherlock rose without a word and stuffed the notebook back into his trench coat. John went to pay only for Sherlock to stop him with a look. Placing his wallet back in his pocket, John followed Sherlock out of the restaurant. Silently, they walked back to their flat. It was not by any means an awkward silence. By now, John was used to Sherlock not speaking to him. He had learned months ago to become comfortable just by being in Sherlock's presence. And Sherlock had learned how to become particularly good at ignoring John's existence whenever needed.

Finally, they ascended the stairs to their flat. John, who was in front of Sherlock, was the first to see what was waiting for them. He stopped in his tracks and stared. Their flat had been torn apart: books were strewn across the floor, papers scattered everywhere, and their furniture flipped over. About the only thing untouched was the board they had set up. But what captured John's attention was a message written on their windows: "Warning Number 6."

"Just when I thought our flat couldn't get any worse," John muttered bitterly as he walked into the flat. He felt violated. His privacy had been invaded by a stranger – by someone who was not welcome in their home.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like a child in a candy shop. "Excellent!" he exclaimed as he looked around their flat. "The killer knows who we are. He knows we're working on this case. And he knows we have what he was looking for."

"I'm sorry. I fail to see how any of this is excellent, Sherlock. He destroyed our flat," John retorted, staring in horror still.

Smiling, Sherlock said, "Because you don't observe, John. This tells us so much about our killer."

"Such as?" John pressed.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock explained, "Now we know that the killer knows where we live and is keeping tabs on us. We also know that he's looking for this journal since all the other information we have is neatly placed on the board, which he did not touch. Because he did not touch it, we can deduce that the information we have will never lead to him. If it did, he would have tried to destroy what we had. He's a patient man, willing to wait until his opportune moment. But he's also desperate, obvious by the fact that he threw our possessions everywhere. As long as we have the journal, he knows there's a possibility that he will be caught. He needs the journal back before we can decipher it and figure out who he is."

John was fascinated once again by Sherlock's deductive reasoning. "Brilliant," he said despite himself. Sherlock smiled at the praise; he had soaked it up from the moment John first complimented him. It made John wonder just how much praise Sherlock had received as a child. Just in case it was not often, John always made sure to voice his honest opinions when others normally would keep theirs to themselves. "But that doesn't change the fact that our flat looks like it was just hit by a tempest," he pointed out.

"I'm sure Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind-" Sherlock began.

"Oh, no, we're not putting it on Mrs Hudson to clean the flat," John cut in.

"-if it stays like this for a while as long as we explain what happened," Sherlock finished before looking at John in confusion.

John felt slightly embarrassed as he registered what Sherlock had said. "Oh," he whispered, looking around the flat. "Well, it was about time we got serious about cleaning the flat up anyway. We can't just have the case take up our entire living room, after all." He bent over and picked up a book from the floor. "Looks like I know what I'm doing for the rest of the day."

Nodding, Sherlock headed over to the sofa and flopped onto it. John knew better than to hope Sherlock would help him. Hell, the first time he had ever even seen the flat, Sherlock had already cluttered it with all of his things. John was the only reason either of them knew that the floor was made of wood. As John went about being domestic, Sherlock focused on trying to figure out the cipher. Each man remained quiet, always aware of the other's presence.


	5. Night Five

Jerking awake for the umpteenth time that night, John blinked a few times and shook his head in an attempt to stay awake. He wanted to ask Sherlock how he managed to make it so long without sleep. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the fact that Sherlock would probably drone on about how he was different from ordinary, dull human beings and never quite answer John's question. Sherlock sat on the sofa next to John, still completely absorbed in the cipher. Clearing his throat, John sat forward on the seat and cupped his face in his hands. His eyes closed from heaviness once more, and John felt himself slipping. Suddenly, he sat up straight in an attempt to stay awake. He knew what he would dream about the moment he fell asleep. Sitting back, John let his eyes close as he debated making a pot of coffee. He decided that he would make a cup, but in a few minutes. After all, there was no rush in making coffee if he was still awake.

By now, his body was heavy and would not move, no matter how much he wanted to get up and make some coffee. John slid down the back of the couch before hitting something hard and warm. Whatever he hit shifted for a second, and he registered that he must have fallen onto Sherlock. He then felt a large hand wedge itself between him and Sherlock, and he was lifted slightly before being gently set back down on the sofa. Heavy footsteps sounded out across the floor before John could hear a rustling. Then he felt something lightly cover him, and Sherlock's smell surrounded him once more. He realised it must have been Sherlock's trench coat before sleep overwhelmed him.

_Blood. That was all John could see. It covered him, his hands, his chest. His uniform was stained with blood, not all of it his own, which kept him from knowing just how much blood he had lost. Becoming tense in pain, John screamed as pain suddenly seared through his left shoulder. Someone was saying something to him, but he could not understand what they were saying. Blood gushed out of his wound, and something sharp bit into his skin. Screaming, John fought against the men pinning him down. He did not want to die. That was the only thing he could process at the time – his will to live. "Please, God, let me live," he cried out as another stab of pain raked through his entire body. Another scream ripped out of his throat as he felt something being inserted into his shoulder. The pain was excruciating, and his vision flashed white. For a long moment, John swore that this must be what Hell felt like. He was not going to leave this world yet. Despite everything he thought before, John was not ready to die. Logic leaving his mind, he fought back against the people holding him down._

Waking up, John screamed out as he struggled against his restraints. He was being pinned by something, and panic still overwhelmed his mind. Struggling, John kicked out only to find his legs completely restrained as well. He struggled harder, believing he was fighting for his life, and gradually realised that he could not escape. Feeling hopeless, John tried once more to come to terms with death. He opened his eyes to find himself looking down at a wooden floor. Eventually, he came to his senses. His breathing was ragged and heavy, and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat. Sweat plastered his hair to his face and his shirt to his skin. Tears were pooled at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. Blinking, John finally grasped that he was surrounded by something warm and solid. He looked up to find it was Sherlock who had restrained him. Suddenly, John felt completely humiliated. Face heating up, he looked back down.

"Let me go," he demanded, tears burning in the back of his eyes. He needed to get to a bathroom before he lost it.

"No," Sherlock answered, slightly tightening his hold on John.

Fighting to pull away, John said, "Sherlock, I'm being serious. Let me go."

"As am I," Sherlock stated.

Finally, John whimpered, "Please, Sherlock." He could feel his anxiety coming to the forefront of his mind. He was about to lose it, and he sure as Hell did not want to be in front of Sherlock's observing eyes when he did.

"If my research is correct, this is better for you," Sherlock informed him.

Unable to hold off the impending anxiety attack any further, John trembled and burst into tears. He could still feel the pain in his shoulder and leg. The taste of blood was in his mouth, and the smell of death still filled his nose. Stomach churning, John fought the urge to vomit as flashes of memories played before his eyes – soldiers crumpling to the ground, broken bodies laying beneath him, looking down the barrel of a gun. His mind was reeling with everything as he tried to ascertain what was real and what was just his imagination. Eventually, he calmed down. He did not know how long he had been crying, but he quickly noted that he felt better this time. Somehow, having someone with him – feeling as though someone cared even if they might not – had helped John. Slowly, he pulled away from Sherlock, who let him go without qualm this time. John let go of Sherlock's arms; at some point, he had locked a death grip on them. Maybe subconsciously, he just needed someone to cling to as he cried – someone to serve as an anchor to reality so he would not lose himself again. Without saying anything, Sherlock rose to his feet and headed back over to the board. John sat on the floor for a long moment, wondering how he got there in the first place. A long moment of silence passed between the two of them as John thought about what Sherlock had just done for him.

"I don't like talking about Afghanistan," John stated suddenly. If Sherlock was willing to be there for him, John felt like he should give his flatmate a glimpse of his darkness. He was not ready to let Sherlock completely in, but a glimpse was more than other people received. Sherlock said nothing in response. "When someone sees what I saw, it's only natural that they wouldn't want to talk about it. I couldn't save all of my patients, and I lost several good friends over there. And then I came close to death… too close." By now, John had Sherlock's undivided attention. He was standing straight, his eyes locked onto John. John felt uncomfortable under the direct observation. Shifting a bit, John avoided Sherlock's gaze, as if that would keep his flatmate from seeing his darkness and his secrets. He stared directly at the floor as he continued, "So when someone says 'talk about Afghanistan,' I never know where to start. How do you even begin explaining the highs and lows? The joy and frustration? The friendship and loss?"

"I believe ordinary people start at the beginning," Sherlock replied.

John offered a smile. "How dull for you," he jested.

"Yes, well," Sherlock muttered, "no one seems to really care about what entertains me."

This made John genuinely smile for a moment. "Very well," he replied. "I enlisted in the military at a young age. Since I was a child, I knew I wanted to be a doctor, but my family could not afford to send me to medical school. So I enlisted, knowing I would get the education and field training I needed to become a doctor. Besides, I needed the structure and discipline at that age." He paused a moment and shook his head. "I didn't understand at the time what it meant to be in the military. Or, really, what it meant to be a doctor. I had been too sheltered from that aspect of the real world."

"Did I do something to make you angry?" Sherlock asked, cutting John off. It was obvious that he was becoming fidgety.

John responded, "No, Sherlock, it is just normal for people to give background information before explaining a very sensitive part of their lives."

"Oh," Sherlock muttered, nodding a couple times. "How tedious."

John did not let Sherlock get to him. After all, he knew his flatmate did not mean to cause offense; he just did not know how to contain his boredom. "The more you stall, the longer it will take for my story to end," he pointed out.

"Then please, continue. And signal me when it becomes interesting," Sherlock responded.

Although he was his normal asocial self, Sherlock could not fool John. John still had his unabated attention. "I went overseas several times before my last trip to Afghanistan. Each trip was different – each had its own unique gains and losses. But I had never experienced such severe PTSD until I returned from this last trip," he continued. Jokingly, he added, "This is where you'll want to start listening, Sherlock."

"I'm waiting with bated breath," Sherlock commented, a hint of jest in his voice.

Taking in a deep breath, John said, "I got my orders to go overseas, and I thought nothing of it. My sister and I were never close, after all, and I was never good at keeping friends. I always forged those bonds of friendship overseas only to fall out of contact once I returned home." Sherlock clicked his tongue in impatience. Shooting him a look, John silenced his flatmate. "When you see so much fighting, part of you has to come to terms with death. I watched men slip from this world while in my care. I've heard their last wishes – last words. I felt their last breath – last beat of their heart. So part of you has to come to peace with death. I thought I had reached that moment in my life, especially after everything I had ever seen."

"And then you were shot," Sherlock cut in.

John answered, "That's correct." He fought the memories emerging, but he couldn't stop his eyes from heating up with tears. He regained control before continuing, "I had never come so close to dying before. And I realised that I wasn't ready to die. I'm still not – and every time I come face-to-face with the barrel of a gun, all I can think about is the time I was shot. I panic every time."

Pausing a moment, John took in several deep breaths. Pictures of soldiers flashed before his eyes; his ears rang with the sound of bullets; his world began to melt, changing into the bare, dry land of Afghanistan. Fighting off his anxiety, John opened his eyes and locked onto Sherlock, who was watching him carefully. _This_ was reality. He was sitting in a flat right now with the world's only consulting detective standing in front of him. Eventually, he came back to his senses. Thanks to his milder cases of posttraumatic stress disorder, John could normally manage his anxiety while awake.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock inquired as John blinked several times and finally looked away.

John nodded curtly. A moment of silence passed between them before he said, "You know, before I went overseas for the first time, I had been warned. The veterans all told me that many men came back FUBAR."

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, turning sharply and staring at John in interest.

Realising that Sherlock would not know the military anagrams, he rephrased, "They warned me that I might come back home very different than when I left."

"No, John, repeat what you said word for word," Sherlock pressed.

John thought back and repeated, "They told me that many men came back FUBAR." As Sherlock began hunting for something, John asked, "What is this about?"

"What does it stand for?" Sherlock inquired as he opened up the notebook.

John answered, "It depends on the context. It can be translated as 'fucked up beyond all reason' or 'fucked up beyond all recognition' or 'fucked up beyond all repair.' Why?"

"Of course, of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. John knew that look; it was Sherlock's "ah ha!" moment. "It's so obvious. Stupid, stupid!" he muttered to himself.

After a moment, John asked, "Would you mind filling me in?"

"I tried to translate the code in several different ways only to come up with gibberish," he began to explain as he set the notebook on the table and grabbed a pen. "I thought I was onto something one time when the first word came out as 'we,' but the following letters made no sense. It didn't occur to me that they might be an anagram." Sherlock began writing in a notepad located on the table.

John headed over and read over Sherlock's shoulder. "WE FUBAR ON GHOSTHUNT MISSION." At seeing how quickly Sherlock was translating the journal, John knew that he was not going to sleep again for the rest of the night. He headed towards the kitchen and prepared coffee for the two of them. He put two sugars into one of the coffees before heading back over and setting Sherlock's mug on the table.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured in acknowledgement.

Sitting down in the chair, John turned on the telly and began flipping through the channels. He hoped something interesting was on at that time of night, because all he could do now was wait for Sherlock to finish translating. Just as he found something to watch, John heard his name being called out.

Looking back, he inquired, "What is it?"

"Does SEALOCK mean anything to you?" he asked.

John replied, "Search, Locate, Communicate or Kill." Silence answered him, and John could hear more scribbling. Just as he was about to turn back to the telly, John heard his name again. "Yes?"

"Did it help?" Sherlock asked vaguely.

John did not need a further explanation. Flushing a bit, he kept his back to Sherlock in hopes that his flatmate would not notice his embarrassment. "Yes, Sherlock, it helped," he confessed. "But do not for a second believe that that means I want you to restrain me every time I have a nightmare. That causes more panic while waking up than normal."

"I apologize, but had I not restrained you then you would have either hurt yourself or me. It was the only logical reaction at the time," Sherlock explained.

Finally, John inquired, "How do you manage it?"

"Manage what?" Sherlock asked, either not following or not paying attention. Perhaps a bit of both.

John quickly clarified, "Staying awake nights on end without it affecting you. I can't make it a night without feeling worn out, and God forbid I have to pull two of them in a row."

"I don't know. My body just doesn't function as a ordinary person's does," Sherlock stated. When John heard just silence after that, he expected for Sherlock to be done with their conversation, so it surprised him when Sherlock continued, "Then again, I never slept a lot. Even when I was a child. My body is just used to running on the amount of sleep I get it."

"Oh," John murmured.

It had been a better answer than he had been expecting, but he was not sure what to do with the new information. So he filed it away in the back of his mind and resumed watching the telly while Sherlock worked to decipher the message left for them by their fifth victim. He hoped that everything would be cleared up by tomorrow.


	6. Day Six

"I'm going to the market. Do you need anything?" John called out.

Silence answered him for a moment, and John patiently waited for Sherlock to realise he had asked him something. "We're out of milk!" he replied.

"How? I bought milk just the other day," John responded incredulously.

Another moment of silence before Sherlock said, "Oh. Never mind then."

Shaking his head, John headed out the door and made the executive decision to buy milk just in case Sherlock was right. John rubbed his eyes and yawned as he descended the stairs. Sherlock and he had stayed up all night, translating the journal word by word. Although John had helped with certain sections, he still did not know what the journal was revealing to Sherlock. All he knew was that each person in the journal had a code name. Sherlock's plan was to decipher the journal and then figure out who the people mentioned in the journal exactly were. As John headed out, Sherlock was close to being done with translating the journal. He hoped that Sherlock would have the journal translated and would have started on the code names by the time he returned.

Mrs Hudson was heading inside as John was heading out. "Morning," he greeted her.

"Morning," she responded before gasping. "Oh, dear, are you feeling better?"

Confused, John asked, "Better?"

"Last night, you sounded like someone was murdering you. I came to check on you, dear, but Sherlock wouldn't open the door. He said he would handle it and forced me to return to bed," she explained.

John flushed a bit and replied, "Yes, well, thank you for your concern. I'm quite well, Mrs Hudson. Quite well."

"Well, that's good to hear," Mrs Hudson responded. "Were something to happen to you, who know what would happen to Sherlock. You're the only one mental enough to put up with him."

Smiling, John nodded in acknowledgement. "You have nothing to worry about, Mrs Hudson. Besides, it would be rather cruel of me to leave you alone to deal with him," he pointed out.

"Yes, well. You have a nice day, dear," Mrs Hudson told him.

John replied, "You, too."

Quickly, John headed out onto the street. He headed towards the market, still ticking through the different things he needed to buy. After the fiasco with Sarah, John always made sure that their bachelor pad was well supplied with food. He never wanted to be embarrassed like that again. Besides, he knew that Sherlock would never go buy food for himself. They would have both starved to death by now if they had depended on Sherlock for sustenance. It mystified John to think that Sherlock had actually lived on his own for years. He had to wonder just how often Sherlock slept or ate when John was not there to watch over him.

Checking both ways, John crossed the street only after he was sure no one would hit him. He did not want to repeat the performance from the last time he walked to the market. As he headed into the market, a familiar face caught his attention. He turned to find Andrew Clayworth standing at one of the stalls. After a moment's hesitation, John headed over to Clayworth, calling out his name in order to avoid startling him. Clayworth turned as soon as he heard his name being called out.

"John!" he called out, smiling as John headed over. "How are you doing, mate?"

John answered, "Just fine. Yourself?"

"Fantastic, fantastic," Clayworth answered. "Actually, it is perfect that you're here. Would you mind helping me get my groceries back to my flat? I'm afraid I bought a little too much for me to handle."

Grinning, John said, "I've been there before. Of course."

"Thank you," Clayworth responded, motioning to two cloth bags that had been filled with a variety of vegetables. "My flat's not too far from here, I promise. And lunch will be on me for your help."

John was not about to turn down a free meal. After all, he was still struggling financially to get along. Between rent, food, and cab rides, he was barely managing to live off his pension. "That would be great," he said, picking up the two cloth bags that Clayworth had motioned to.

"So how is your case coming along?" Clayworth inquired as he started walking through the market. Startled, John looked at him in surprise. "Oh, come now, don't pretend surprised. Someone was murdered in Hyde Park Barracks; everyone knows about it. You and your colleague were seen at the crime scene, and you told me that your colleague/flatmate was a private detective. It's like adding two plus two."

"Ah. Well, yes. It's just – you see…" He paused, collecting his thoughts completely. "It's coming along."

Smiling, Clayworth responded, "I'm glad to hear that. Steven Toulon was a good man. He deserves justice."

John nodded in response, following Clayworth as he turned down an alleyway. "It's always hard when we lose one of our own," he commented.

"To survive Afghanistan only to die on our soil. It's a cruel twist of fate," Clayworth agreed as they emerged from the alleyway next to a busy street. "Be careful as we cross. Some people don't understand that hitting pedestrians is a crime."

Chuckling, John replied, "Yes, I've experienced that before. I guess it can't be helped in this town, though. Everyone has got to be somewhere, and they have no time to wait for other people to get to where they need to go."

Quickly, they crossed the street and stopped in front of an apartment complex. Clayworth paused a moment to open the front door and held it open, motioning for John to go in first. After John slipped into the building, Clayworth entered after him and let the door close behind them. "I live on the fifth floor, so we'll take the lift," he stated, hitting the up button.

"You live in a nice building for being on an army salary," John noted, slightly jealous.

Laughing, Clayworth responded, "Military funded housing, actually. There's no way I could afford such housing on an army salary. We're too underpaid for what we do."

"Indeed," John agreed as the lift doors opened. They stepped inside, and Clayworth hit the number five button. "They blame the recession, thinking we don't know any better."

Clayworth shook his head. "If the country actually knew what their taxes are being allocated to, we would have mass anarchy on our hands," he stated. The lift doors opened to the appropriate floor. Both men stepped off, and Clayworth said, "Just down this way. Thank you again, by the way, for helping me."

"Well, you offered me some lunch, so I could hardly turn down your offer," John pointed out.

"Very true. The army pension isn't what it used to be," Clayworth concurred. "Speaking of which, how _do_ you manage to live in the centre of London – even with a flatmate?"

John answered, "Our landlady owed Sherlock a favour."

Fumbling with his keys, Clayworth took a moment to unlock his door. He swung it open, motioning for John to enter first. John walked into the organised, clean flat. Staring around the room, he was surprised to discover that he was not envious. Until Sherlock, John had a tidy room. Sherlock, however, always had his stuff exploding over everything. John had become used to living in chaos – and was now more comfortable living in a cluttered mess. It felt more like home.

"Do you like pasta?" Clayworth asked as he began unloading his groceries on the counter.

John returned to the present. "Um, yeah. Yeah, that's fine," he finally answered, heading into the kitchen as well. He set the bags on the counter and asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Entertain me while I cook," Clayworth suggested.

Nodding, John sat down on a stool. "Have you been enjoying the delicacies of London?" he jested, knowing Clayworth would know what he was referring to.

"So much more than our pre-prepared meals in Afghanistan," Clayworth answered, shuddering. "I would die happy if I never had to eat another one of those things ever again."

John pointed out, "It was at least better than starving."

"Barely," Clayworth replied, laughing as he filled a pot with water. "Had some of the guys no family to return to, they just might have chosen to starve."

John responded, "Instead, they would just go get themselves shot so they could be brought to the hospital. The patients were always given better meals."

"That explains everything! I almost never had my full brigade under my command while in Afghanistan. There would be at least one person off in the hospital for some reason," Clayworth said jokingly. "Why didn't we do that, John?"

Thinking for a moment, John teasingly answered, "Because I was a doctor, so I got better meals on a semi-regular basis. And you? You probably just weren't smart enough to figure it out."

"Hey, you're talking to a lieutenant-colonel, Captain!" Clayworth pointed out jestingly as he started the stove and placed the pot on top of the open flame.

John smiled. "Thank God I was discharged when I was then," he joked.

"Thank God indeed," Clayworth concurred, turning back around to face John. As he began to put away his groceries, he asked, "So any girlfriends to speak of then, John?"

Shaking his head, John informed him, "I've had plenty of girlfriends, but I just don't seem to be able to keep them longer than a few months. Although Sherlock's partially to blame. He always manages to alienate them when they come over to the flat. Besides, living with him is practically a full-time job."

"Then why don't you move out?" Clayworth asked. Silence passed between the two of them for a moment before he continued, "I mean, if he's killing your chances with girls and is too much of a hassle to live with, you could always move out."

John did not entertain the thought for even a moment. "He would probably die if I moved out," he said matter-of-factly. "The man hardly eats or sleeps as it is."

"That's not your problem, John," Clayworth told him. "If you're not happy there, you should move out."

Shaking his head, John replied, "I am happy there, Andrew. It's not an ideal situation, mind you, but there is no reason to move out."

"Well, I suppose if you're happy, that's all that matters," Clayworth conceded, pouring in some noodles into the boiling water before turning down the heat. "I know you said that you two weren't together, but do you ever wonder how your flatmate feels about you? It's not normal for a flatmate to be ruining your chances with every girl."

John laughed as he heard this. He had forgotten just how abnormal Sherlock was. "It's not like he's trying. He's just Sherlock. Unless he deems it important, he doesn't remember it," he explained.

"Wouldn't your flatmate's girlfriend be important?" Clayworth inquired.

Chuffed, John replied, "Knowing the sun was the centre of our solar system was not deemed important enough by Sherlock Holmes. How could my girlfriend's name ever stand a chance?"

"At least you're a good sport about it," Clayworth stated. "I don't know how you do it. From what I've heard so far, I feel like I probably would have killed him months ago."

John forced a smile to his lips but said nothing. Clayworth did not need to know that John was in love with his flatmate – a love that was bound to be unrequited and secret for the rest of his life. Even if Clayworth did know, there was nothing either of them could do about it. John would just make the most of his time together with Sherlock. After all, it was not like he enjoyed Sherlock's company any less merely because they were not together.

A pounding on the door captured John's attention, and he looked over at Clayworth in confusion. "Were you expecting anyone?" he asked.

"No," Clayworth answered honestly, opening up a drawer and pulling out a handgun. If there was something one could guarantee, it would be that soldiers would have at least one gun in their household.

"I'm afraid I've locked myself out of my flat, would you mind if I used your phone?" a voice called in.

John recognised it immediately. "Sherlock?" he called out as he headed to open the door. How on Earth had Sherlock deduced that he was there of all places?

Just as his hand touched the doorknob, something hard and cold touched pressed against the back of his head and his other hand was pinned behind his back. Instantly, his mind began clicking all the pieces together. Sherlock had not known John was there at all or he would not have tried to use a cover up to get into the flat. No, Sherlock had figured out who the killer was and had come to confront him. "Open the door slowly," Clayworth hissed, "or I will shoot you and then your friend."

Very slowly, John turned the knob and let the door swing open. Sherlock stood on the other side. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight before him: John with a gun pointed at his head. Shaking, John fought off the anxiety he felt every time there was a gun pressed against his flesh. He would have thought that by now he would have become assimilated to the feeling, but it scared him every time.

Looking back at Clayworth, Sherlock held up the notebook and said, "You were looking for this, were you not?"

"Yes, I was… although I'm sure that it won't do me any good now," Clayworth answered, his voice low.

Sherlock responded, "Probably not, seeing as how I have already figured out what you've done."

Breathing heavy, John heard Clayworth's grip of the gun's handle tighten. He fought off his anxiety as Clayworth said, "And what did Toulon let you in on? How much of the story do you actually know?"

"Your mission was called Ghosthunt – your objective was to search, locate, and kill a cartel selling weapons to enemy forces. You were given your orders and met up the day before. The mission was time sensitive, so you only had 24 hours to accomplish it. As soon as night fell, your group headed out. But you had decided to not obey the orders. After all, you were on the verge of being promoted. Not only did you need for this mission to be a success, you needed it to be a success because of your actions," Sherlock explained, slowly stepping into the apartment. Clayworth pulled John back as he did so. "So you made the executive decision to use a different tactical advance than the one suggested. The other members did not know what the tactical information was since they were to take orders from you. I assume this is normal protocol for such missions. So they went in and followed your orders, but they were ambushed halfway through the mission. Half the people under your command died that night, two were injured but survived, and four others, including yourself, were uninjured. You managed to rescue the two injured that night, ensuring that promotion you wanted."

"It was a brilliant plan, really," Clayworth responded. "I was the only one with the tactical plans. I could claim I followed orders word-for-word, and no one would be the wiser. The higher-ups would claim that our intelligence must have ben intercepted or exchanged. All I had to do was burn the original orders."

"But Toulon found them," Sherlock cut in.

Suddenly, Clayworth yelled, "They fell out of my fucking pocket, and that bastard found them! He told the others what I had done, but by then it was already too late. Officially, this mission had never happened. All the media heard was that an IED exploded on the side of the road and killed those men. The reports were all already turned in, and I had my promotion." John flinched as he felt the gun being pressed harder into the back of his skull.

"And you were already back in England," Sherlock said. "So he sent you a letter, informing you that you could either confess as to what actually happened or they would report you."

Laughing maniacally, Clayworth said, "And that was his mistake. In trying to be just and fair, he left not only himself but all his accomplices open. All I had to do was send each person a picture of their loved ones back, and they fell into line as they should. But Toulon kept pressing. He didn't think I had it in me. He didn't believe I was strong enough to actually kill citizens."

"He was wrong," Sherlock noted.

Clayworth said, "Of course he was. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Killing a human being feels no different no matter who that person might be. I'm sure John knows what I'm talking about."

John's eyes widened as he remembered killing the cabbie. He had felt no different then as he had in Afghanistan. Although Sherlock brought it up later, John was able to brush it off. After all, the cabbie was really not a good man, and he had all but forced Sherlock to possibly kill himself. But the truth was that John did not lose sleep over the killing. He was too acclimated to death and killing. What was another life? Especially that of a serial killer? Everyone claimed that Sherlock was a psychopath. What they did not realise was that the real psychopath was the soft-spoken man standing just behind him.

"In order to silence them once and for all, I fulfilled my promise. They either were incapable of getting revenge or were too weak to come after me. But Toulon just would not take a hint," Clayworth continued. "So I ended him, which is what I should have done from the beginning. He was the only one who could actually testify against me. As he was dying, he laughed, telling me that he had written a journal that I would never find, but when they did then my life would be over as well. I searched as much as I could only to find nothing."

Sherlock responded, "Yes, well, you just were not observant enough to notice what was right in front of you."

"And you were," Clayworth stated. "I knew you had it, but you never left the flat unoccupied. I must admit that in desperation, I tried to send John to the hospital. Unfortunately, he moved fat enough to evade my efforts."

Realisation washed over him, and he felt as if he had been doused in cold water. "You were the one who nearly ran me over!" he exclaimed. Sherlock looked at them in confusion.

"And you're just as agile as you were in Afghanistan," Clayworth responded.

Sherlock cut back into the conversation, "And now we're here. What is your plan now?"

"I am going to leave," Clayworth responded, his grip on John's arm tightening painfully. "I have a rather nice hostage, don't you agree?"

John noticed Sherlock's expression harden. His normally bright blue eyes became icy cold. "If you take him, your treachery will be known all across the country," he threatened.

"By the time you'll tell anyone, I will be long gone. Should you tell them anytime before, your dear flatmate here will be executed," Clayworth informed him.

Swallowing, John murmured, "Oh, God, no. Please, God, no."

"Breathe deeply, John," Clayworth said. "You never did perform well when you were on the other side of a gun."

John clenched his jaw as he heard this and locked eyes with Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock inquired, "Why don't you take me as a hostage? Surely I would be a much better bargaining chip than John." Horror iced John's blood as he heard this. What was Sherlock thinking?

"Because your brother is Mycroft Holmes?" Clayworth asked. "Interesting. Yes, that could be better for me."

John laughed bitterly as he heard this. "Don't be an idiot, Andrew," he said. "Sherlock has no real relationship with his brother."

"John, shut up," Sherlock sharply ordered.

Ignoring him, John continued, "Besides, taking me with you would be a better idea. The media will miss Sherlock if he were to suddenly die. They would demand for justice – to know who killed him. You would be running for the rest of your life if you killed a public figure like Sherlock."

"John, shut up!" Sherlock snapped again. John recognised the emotion reflecting in Sherlock's eyes; he had seen it plenty of times when looking at himself in the mirror after one of his nightmares. It was fear.

Mind racing, John babbled on, "But I guarantee you that no one would miss me if I were to die. No one would come after you if I were to turn up dead somewhere."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, panic reflecting a bit in his voice. John doubt that Clayworth could hear it. After all, Clayworth did not know Sherlock like John knew him.

"So take me. It would be better for you anyway," he finished, shaking as his heart raced. He did not want to die, but he knew there was little chance of Clayworth letting a hostage go alive. If Sherlock were to die, John would never be able to forgive himself. It would be better this way – his life instead of Sherlock's.

After a moment of silence, Clayworth said, "I guess the decision has been made. You will let me pass or I shall place a bullet in Dr Watson's brain." Clayworth slowly began shifting to the right with John.

As Sherlock shifted to the left in order to stay directly across from them, he said, "I will let you know this right now, Andrew Clayworth: John is lying. If you kill John, I will personally hunt you down. I do not care where that leads me or how long it will take me. I will find you, and I guarantee that you will regret ever laying a hand on John. That is what I promise you." John felt moved by Sherlock's declaration. The look in Sherlock's eyes told him that Sherlock was telling the truth. If nothing else, John knew that his death will be avenged.

"I look forward to it, Mr Sherlock Holmes," Clayworth replied, his back finally to the door.

Just as they were about to step through the threshold, John heard a gunshot go off. Everything after that all happened in the matter of seconds. Clayworth made a noise in the back of his throat just as something whizzed past John's head. Abruptly, the grip on his arm was released. Clayworth crumpled to the ground, and John turned to see blood coming from a hole in his head. Staggering back into the room, John felt his knees buckle as shock finally kicked in.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, kneeling down next to him. John wanted to answer only to find his mind had locked up. "John, are you alright?" he repeated, shaking him a bit.

Was that concern John saw on Sherlock's face? No. Impossible. That would be sentiment. It must have been his imagination – wishful thinking. After a moment, John managed to nod.

"That was a close one. Don't you think, brother?" Mycroft inquired as he entered the room.

Sherlock scowled at his elder brother. "I knew you were still keeping surveillance on us," he responded matter-of-factly. "It was only a matter of stalling until you got your henchmen up here to take care of the job. What took you so long anyway? Did you stop to get something to eat first?"

"My diet's just fine. Thank you for your concern," Mycroft answered pointedly. "And we had to wait for a clear shot. We didn't want Dr Watson to be caught in the crossfire, would we?"

Pulling up on John's arm, Sherlock forced John to stand. His legs were wobbly, unable to truly hold his weight just yet. Sherlock quickly wrapped an arm underneath John and lifted up, supporting him so he could stand. "We're going," he declared. "Keep good on your side of the bargain, Mycroft."

"I always do," Mycroft answered as Sherlock practically dragged John out of the apartment. "You might even be granted a knighthood for this, little brother."

Quickly, Sherlock called back, "Not interested!"

By the time the lift arrived, John was able to stand on his own two feet. He informed Sherlock as such and was released. In silence, they walked out of the building and hailed a cab. The silence lasted throughout the cab ride and as they ascended the stairs to their flat. Sherlock opened the door and walked in, and John followed him and closed the door behind them.

As soon as the door shut, Sherlock repeated, "But I guarantee you that no one would miss me if I were to die." It took John a moment to realise what Sherlock was talking about. Slowly, Sherlock turned to face John. John knew immediately that Sherlock was furious with him. His eyes were hard, unwavering; his brow was drawn together; and his lips pressed together in discontentment. Yes, Sherlock was most definitely feeling the sentiment known as anger. "If you honestly meant that, you're a bigger idiot than I thought."

"Sherlock," John called out. "_You_ have more people who care about you than I do."

"I also have more people who would throw a party after reading my obituary," Sherlock pointed out.

John replied, "Yes, but you brought that upon yourself." Neither of them said anything for a long moment before John asked, "Why does it bother you, Sherlock?"

"Because you nearly threw your life away!" Sherlock snarled.

Laughing bitterly, John interjected, "Says the man who almost took poison because he wanted to prove how clever he was!"

"I didn't have the poison one," Sherlock responded haughtily, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

John pressed, "Oh, what does it matter, Sherlock? So you didn't have the poison pill. I wasn't shot in the back of the head."

"It matters because you honestly believed no one would miss you," Sherlock snapped back.

"Okay. I apologise for not thinking of Harriet and Mrs Hudson. Who knows? Maybe even Lestrade would miss me," John replied sarcastically.

Suddenly, Sherlock's expression changed. His brows furrowed together and his lips dropped into a frown. Looking away, he turned his back to John. "What about me?" he queried.

"What about you?" John echoed. He shook his head slightly as his heart gave a sharp ache. "Sherlock, you're the king of apathy. You don't even notice when I leave the flat. You talk to me regardless if I'm actually there or not. You consistently denounce having any sentiment at all and pride yourself on being unattached from everything except your work. So why should I believe that you, of all people, would miss me when I'm gone?"

A moment of silence passed between the two of them. Quietly, Sherlock answered, "I don't know." He started towards his bedroom, but John was not going to let him slide away so easily.

"Sherlock!" John called out, catching his wrist in an attempt to force Sherlock to stop. His doctor's instinct kicked in as he felt Sherlock's pulse, and his eyes widened when he realised it was racing. Sherlock snatched his hand away from John. "Sherlock?" John called out again. There should be no reason for Sherlock's pulse to be that fast anymore, and John started quickly filing through every medical problem which included that symptom. "Are you alright?" he asked, reaching forward again to take his pulse.

Pulling back, Sherlock sharply replied, "Of course I'm alright. It's not like I'm in love or anything."

"Sherlock, I didn't say anything about love-" John started to say before realisation hit him like a slap to the face. His jaw dropped open, and he stared in awed silence. Surely not. This was _Sherlock_ they were talking about. "You mean, you-"

Stopping in his tracks, Sherlock cut him off, "Of course not. There's no way. If I ever had sentiment, it would never be _love_. That's the weakest sentiment of all."

"No, Sherlock. You're wrong," John said. "Love is the strongest sentiment one can feel."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't have sentiment. It's a weakness. One I choose not to have. One I had never been raised with," he reasoned.

"You're human, Sherlock, not a machine," John pointed out calmly. "You're bound to feel something at some point."

"But _love_?" Sherlock reiterated, sounding disgusted.

John finally snapped, "Oh, what does it matter, Sherlock? Whether it's love, hate, anger, happiness, depression, or joy? It's _sentiment_."

"No. That can't be it," Sherlock responded.

Leaning forward, John asked, "Then think back, Sherlock. At Clayworth's flat. What were you feeling?"

"I just- I don't know," Sherlock snapped, clearly exasperated. "I know the chemistry that creates emotions, but I've never really experienced it at work. So I supposed I felt – frustrated. After all, you were not listening to me at all. And-" His voice trailed a bit.

John finished his thought for him, "Panicked."

Clearly surprised, Sherlock finally made eye contact. It looked like John had just set the last piece of the puzzle into place. Realisation washed over his expression as his jaw dropped and his eyes widened. At the same time, Sherlock looked rather horrified. Swallowing, Sherlock gazed deeply into John's eyes. "How did you know?" he inquired, obviously mystified by John's insight. After all, it was not often that John could tell Sherlock something previously unknown.

"I've seen that look many times before," John answered. "So now the question you have to answer is: _why_ were you panicked?" Sherlock's expression clouded with confusion, and John could see that he was working really hard to logically figure everything out. Feeling bad for his roommate, John began to ramble, "It's alright if you don't understand it right now, Sherlock. Well – it's just… not everything can be solved in under a minute, you know. Besides, normal people struggle with such emotions anyway." As he was rambling, Sherlock looked over at him and listened. "Myself included. So I cannot imagine what you must be going through since you've probably had no history with these feelings," he continued. A moment of silence passed between them, and John shifted, feeling awkward. "So all I'm saying is that it's alright – it's alright if you don't know."

Sherlock then did something John had not been expecting at all. In three strides, he stood in front of John. Their gazes were locked, and before John knew it, Sherlock cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. In shock, John blinked a few times as he processed that Sherlock's warm lips were touching his own. He instinctively reacted by pressing into the kiss, desiring more contact from the man who normally kept everyone at a distance. Slowly, John lifted his hands up to cup Sherlock's face as well – to try to draw him closer. His heart raced as Sherlock stroked one of his cheeks with his thumb. He barely realised that Sherlock's other hand had moved to his neck. After a few more moments, they pulled apart. Breathing slightly heavier than normal, John could still feel the tingling sensation on his lips and the shock of what had just happened. Sherlock had a spark in his eyes that John had never seen before.

"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured to himself as he walked away.

Not following that train of thought, John asked, "What is?"

"Your pulse!" Sherlock answered loudly before closing his bedroom door behind him.

John realised what Sherlock had done, and he groaned as he sank into the sofa. Of course Sherlock would have experimented on him to see what kind of reaction he could get. John had been an idiot to believe- Suddenly, John felt as if he had been slapped in the face, smiling as he recalled grabbing Sherlock's wrist. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock's pulse had been racing as well. Looking at the bedroom door, John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock finally understood that being in love was more than just a physiological reaction. He chuckled before opening the newspaper sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Now all John had to do was wait until Sherlock admitted it, and if there was something that John H. Watson certainly was, it was patient.


	7. Extra

EXTRA CHAPTER: The Five Times Sherlock Kissed John… and the One Time John Kissed Him

The first time Sherlock kissed John after the Green-Eyed Soldier case was the very next day. John was taking a drink of his morning coffee when Sherlock stumbled out of his bedroom. Although Sherlock enjoyed playing off the fact he also needed sleep, John knew the signs of a man who had basically slipped into a sleep coma for the last fourteen hours: his hair was tousled, his movements sluggish, and his pyjamas were dishevelled. Chuckling under his breath, John shook his head and returned to reading the paper. He heard Sherlock drop something in the kitchen, a quick curse, and then silence. As he flipped the page, he heard footsteps getting closer. John looked up expectantly, assuming Sherlock wanted to say something to him. Sherlock, who was now holding a cup of coffee, swiftly leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on John's lips. Shocked, John felt a rush of giddiness and stared, dumbfounded, at his flatmate as Sherlock observed him. After a moment, Sherlock clicked his tongue and headed towards one of the windows.

"I'm sorry. What was that?" John inquired, watching Sherlock walk away.

Quickly, Sherlock replied, "Experiment."

"Experiment?" John clarified, unsure how to react to the new information.

Sherlock answered, "I'm beginning to believe that you should see an audiologist. Yes, John, an experiment."

"Well, warn me next time, would you?" John inquired, opening the newspaper back up as he licked his lips. They still tingled.

The second time Sherlock kissed John after the Green-Eyed Soldier case was three days after the first. They were at a crime scene – a body had been found completely dried of blood with two puncture wounds on the neck and the blood nowhere to be found. This was the third victim. Although the media was already advertising "The Vampire Killer," Sherlock was sure that there was a logical explanation. It was at the third crime scene that John realised that all victims had the blood type AB negative, which was incredibly rare. When John suggested that perhaps the blood had been pumped out of the victims to sell on the black market, Sherlock looked at him as if he had just solved the question of life. Before John could even react, Sherlock seized him and planted a kiss right on his lips. His heart began to race from the kiss, but horror iced John's blood as he shoved Sherlock off.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock!" he yelled, causing Lestrade and Anderson to look over to see what was wrong. Quickly, he lowered his voice, "You can't _do_ something like that."

Clearly confused, Sherlock inquired, "Why not? It's for the experiment."

"Because people will talk – experiment or not," John responded. "And it's not proper to just kiss someone in public like that."

Sherlock reiterated, "Not proper?"

"That's right, Sherlock," John answered. "And you sure as hell should not be kissing your flatmate in front of all of Scotland Yard, who – mind you – enjoy gossiping about you as much as possible."

Indifferent, Sherlock shrugged. "No one noticed. I made sure no one was paying attention," he informed John.

"Just – no, Sherlock," John snapped. "Do you understand me? I don't care if your experiment depends on it. No."

Sherlock frowned before heading over towards Lestrade, most likely planning the most offensive way to tell Lestrade just how much of an unobservant idiot he was. Meanwhile, John was left next to the corpse. His face was hot with embarrassment as he double and triple checked that no one was looking at him. Even so, his heart was still racing.

The third time Sherlock kissed John after the Green-Eyed Soldier case was a week after the second kiss. After solving another case for Scotland Yard, Sherlock decided he wanted something to eat. Naturally, they headed over to Angelo's since they got a discounted price. They had been sitting at a table in the corner of the room. As John tried to figure out what he wanted to eat, Sherlock was muttering to himself about the different foods, naming the different ingredients in each as well as describing why he did or did not like a certain food. Angelo had come by twice, once to take their drink orders and once to deliver their drinks as well as a lit candle. This time, John did not even have the heart to object. It was not like Angelo would listen anyway. Suddenly, Sherlock motioned for Angelo to come over. At seeing this, John quickly started to reread the menu in an attempt to figure out what he wanted.

"What would you like to eat?" Angelo asked as soon as he was right next to them.

Sherlock responded, "John would like the Shepherd's pie with mashed potatoes and vegetables on the side, and I will have the Cottage pie with the same sides."

Baffled, John looked up as Angelo wrote down the orders and walked off. He looked at Sherlock in confusion. "How could you possibly know what I wanted to eat? _I _didn't even know what I wanted to eat," John inquired.

"When reading the menu, your eyes kept lingering on the same spot. I looked at my menu and deduced from your previous meals that you were debating on whether you should get the Shepherd's pie or not," Sherlock answered.

Laughing slightly, John shook his head in awe. "Completely and utterly extraordinary," he said to himself. "Sometimes, I can't even believe you're human, Sherlock."

Swiftly, Sherlock lifted the wine menu up and blocked their faces from the rest of the restaurant. Before John could object, Sherlock captured his lips in a sweet kiss. Closing his eyes, John leaned in a moment before realising where they were. He pulled back a second only for Sherlock to follow. John quickly glanced to the side to find the menu still there – still blocking them from the rest of the world. Sherlock had taken his previous demand into account, so John would let him get away with this just once. After another moment, John slowly pulled back and sat back in his seat. Sherlock pulled back as well, lowering the menu.

"You have got to tell me what exactly this experiment is," he stated, licking his lips in an attempt to numb the tingling sensation.

Sherlock smiled enigmatically. "All in due time, John. All in due time."

The fourth time Sherlock kissed John after the Green-Eyed Soldier case had been four days after the third kiss. After a long day, John had decided to go to bed early. He had been sleeping for about four hours when the first nightmare struck. Unlike normal, this was not a nightmare about Afghanistan. This nightmare was about Sherlock. Beaten and bruised, Sherlock was restrained in a chair as a serial killer held a gun to his head. John was trapped behind a glass panel, unable to get to Sherlock no matter how hard he tried. As John pounded on the glass, the serial killer raised the gun and pointed it at the back of Sherlock's head. In the matter of seconds, Sherlock's brains and blood were splattered across the glass.

Screaming, John leapt out of his bed. Sweat covered his entire body, his heart raced from the adrenaline, and tears were still rolling down his cheeks. His blankets were wrapped around him. In a panic, John tried to untangle himself but fell to the floor in the process. He struggled harder to free himself only to wrap himself up more. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice say, "Stay still." John felt two hands deftly moving around the blankets, and the blankets began to loosen. John was finally freed from his captor, and he kicked the blankets far away from him. Looking up, he found Sherlock kneeling in front of him. John quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to stop shaking.

"Thank you," he managed to say. Even his voice was trembling.

Sherlock inquired, "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," John answered as he ran his hands through his hair. "Sorry to wake you."

Sherlock replied, "Don't worry about it. I wasn't sleeping."

"Alright then. Good," John said, swallowing and looking away from his flatmate. "Well, off with you then. I wouldn't want to keep you from whatever experiment you're working on right now."

Matter-of-factly, Sherlock responded, "You know that there's only one experiment I'm working on right now."

With that, John felt a lithe hand slip under his chin and lift up his head. He felt a pair of warm lips press themselves on his forehead. Closing his eyes, John relaxed under Sherlock's touch. He had to remember that, no matter what his imagination came up with, his reality was much different. Sherlock was alive and well – and right in front of him to boot. Breathing deeply, John calmed down. After a long moment, Sherlock pulled back and gazed down at John. Neither said a word until Sherlock rose to his feet. "Sleep well, John," he said before striding out of the room.

Surprisingly enough, John did not experience another nightmare for the rest of the night.

The fifth time Sherlock kissed John was five days after the fourth. John was searching for his handgun. He had basically torn the flat apart in search of it. What worried him most was that Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Just as he was about to head into Sherlock's room, John heard the front door open. He could hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and he waited in anticipation. Quickly, Sherlock strode into the room. John watched in dismay as Sherlock removed the handgun and set it on the table.

"Sherlock," John said, exasperated.

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired as he removed his scarf and trench coat.

Shaking his head, John responded, "Yes! I have already told you that you cannot just take my gun whenever you please. If someone were to catch you-"

"No one is going to catch me, John," Sherlock responded confidently.

John snapped, "You just- you don't _know_ that, Sherlock!" He grabbed the handgun and checked how much ammo was left. Luckily, a shot had not been fired.

"Of course I know so, John," Sherlock replied.

John took a moment to compose himself. In a very calm voice, he said, "You cannot know that for sure, Sherlock. Not even you. And if something went wrong-" He stopped himself from continuing. Would Sherlock even understand where he was coming from?

"If something went wrong? You mean, if I killed someone with your gun?" Sherlock pressed, observing John carefully.

John looked away from Sherlock and finally said, "If something happened to you, Sherlock, because of that gun – because you didn't use it right – or because someone disarmed you and used it against you– well, I… I just don't know if I could ever forgive myself." Blinking in surprise, Sherlock stared at John a moment as if he was trying to understand where John was coming from. John licked his lips as he continued, "So next time you feel the need to use it, come to me. You shouldn't be going into dangerous situations alone."

Sherlock watched John for a long moment, and John fidgeted under Sherlock's gaze. Suddenly, Sherlock declared, "I am going to kiss you."

Stunned, John looked up at him and replied, "What?"

"I am going to kiss you," Sherlock reiterated, taking a step towards John with every word. John's heart raced as he processed exactly what Sherlock said to him. As John looked up at him in shock, Sherlock paused a moment. Sherlock leaned down very slow and kissed John. His anger left almost instantaneously when their lips met. Adrenaline pumping, John closed his eyes instinctively and subconsciously leaned into the kiss. Sherlock pulled John a bit closer in order to get more contact. Shuddering, John could practically hear his blood pounding as he felt Sherlock's long, lithe arms wrap around him. John lost himself in the moment and found himself yearning for more when he felt Sherlock pull back. Grudgingly, John let him pull away. John was left breathless. Swallowing, John glimpsed the handgun and remembered exactly what they were talking about to begin with.

Licking his lips, John murmured, "Don't believe for a second that you're off the hook for this, Sherlock. My demand still stands."

Sherlock smirked enigmatically at he heard this but said nothing as he headed into the kitchen. Subconsciously, John touched his lips and smiled to himself. He would be lying if he said that he had not enjoyed that kiss at all.

"So is your experiment over with?" John inquired. It had been two weeks since the last time Sherlock had kissed him, longer than he had ever lasted since the Green-Eyed Soldier case. John was burning with curiosity as to what exactly Sherlock had been experimenting for. Or, at least, that is what he told himself. There would be no way he could even admit to himself that he missed Sherlock's kiss.

"Hm?" Sherlock inquired, not looking up from his microscope. "Ah, the experiment. Yes."

Surprised, John tried to play it off by taking a drink of his coffee. After what he felt was an appropriate amount of time, he pressed, "And what were the results?"

"Inconclusive. I need to re-evaluate my data and expand on the experiment," Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

John waited for Sherlock to continue only for silence to settle between them. "That's it?" he queried incredulously.

"What's it?" Sherlock asked, clearly not understanding.

Scowling, John said, "You randomly kissed me for two weeks, and there's nothing more you can tell me about your experiment except the fact that the results are inconclusive?"

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired.

John scoffed. "Yes, Sherlock, there's a huge problem. You can't just – you can't just randomly kiss me and then blow everything off as if it's nothing."

"Why not?" Sherlock queried.

Exasperated, John snapped, "Because I deserve an answer! It was me you're kissing, after all. Have you ever thought about how I felt about you kissing me?"

"I knew exactly what you felt about me kissing you," Sherlock responded. "You're incredibly easy to read, after all."

John shouted, "Well, what about _me_, Sherlock? What if _I _don't know how I felt about you kissing me?"

"And what? You think knowing my data will help you in some way to understand how you feel?" Sherlock clarified.

John honestly answered, "Yes!"

Turning away from his microscope, Sherlock looked at John fully. "Very well. You enjoy being kissed spontaneously, but you will not object to being kissed even if I tell you beforehand. By the way you lick your lips afterwards, you enjoy both equally. You also like it when I gently stroke your cheek given the way your heart sped up the moment I every time I do so. Judging your reaction after I kissed you at that crime scene, you do not like being kissed in public. However, you are compliant to being kissed in public as long as you are visually hidden from everyone who can see. And finally, you find the act of kissing comforting even if it is not on the lips, apparent by how you reacted after your nightmare and the fact that you did not have another nightmare that night."

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock had been experimenting all this time to find out what it was that John liked? Of course just asking John straight out would not have been interesting enough for Sherlock. He had to take the trail and error course. Suddenly, joy overwhelmed John. That meant that Sherlock was actually entertaining the idea of _them_. It was a step in the right direction for their relationship. He grinned at Sherlock, who looked at him in confusion as he went to change out two slides. With five short strides, John crossed the distance between them. He cupped Sherlock's face and drew him into a kiss. Very softly, John nipped at Sherlock's lower lip before slipping his tongue in and deepening the kiss. The sound of glass shattering sounded out next to them as Sherlock dropped the glass slide in his hand. Neither of them cared. John's left hand combed through Sherlock's long hair as Sherlock gently stroked John's cheek. As they both combated for dominance, Sherlock dropped his other hand lower and pulled John into him. When John felt that familiar rush of urgency, he knew they were going into uncharted territory. Very slowly, John pulled away from Sherlock, who followed him a ways before finally allowing the kiss to break. Sherlock's hair was dishevelled from John's hand combing through it, and John could not help but notice with a smug satisfaction that Sherlock was the one left breathless this time.

After a long moment, Sherlock turned back to his microscope. "If you could refrain from doing that while I'm working with my microscope, that would be much appreciated," he said as he cleaned up the shattered glass slide. "Next time, something deadly might be on there."

"I'll keep that in mind," John responded, smiling to himself as he headed into the living room. Somehow, his life with Sherlock was a little brighter.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope you enjoyed.


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